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My Eyes Will See Only You

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Jerry awakes at some time late at night. He bends his arm, leans on his hand, sees the moon positioned perfectly between the blinds against the night sky. He looks down at Patti; she’s sound asleep with the blanket bunched into folds around her chin. Jerry’s throat is real dry, and he tries to clear it successfully and quietly; it doesn’t succeed, because it’s still dry. He needs a glass of water, and-- he’s hungry, too, now-- a midnight snack. Jerry looks at the clock, so, maybe a 2:37 AM snack, but the point still stands.

Jerry bunches the blanket up in his hand, scraping it off himself as delicately as possible, so as not to pull the part Patti’s under. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and puts on his slippers. He’s about to trudge downstairs in his boxers, but a small voice in his head stops him, reminds him that Dean’s staying, Dean might see. Jerry represses a sigh and pulls his bathrobe on. It’s a tough night when a fella can’t even wander his own home sans pants without being indecent, he thinks; Jerry stifles a laugh as he ties the robe’s cord. He slowly inches the door open, then shuts it as quietly as possible.

Jerry catches his own reflection in the hall mirror; he looks like an old man emerging from a communal shower in a hostel in the Catskills in this silly tartan robe and slippers. If Dean sees him-- let’s just say the idea makes Jerry wish he were dead. He doesn’t know why he’s so worried about it; Dean’s just staying because Jeanne’s booted him out again, and after all the yelling he’s done with her today, he’s probably dead tired and fast asleep. Jerry pads down the stairs, still trying to be quiet. When he turns to go down the hall, he sees the light is on in the kitchen; he wonders if someone’s left it on all this time. Maybe one of his boys was hungry, too?

The kitchen’s L-shaped, with a counter that wraps around it, all the way to a set-back section on the right, obscured by the fridge upon Jerry’s entrance. At first, the kitchen seems to be “Population: Jerry”, so he’s a little taken aback when he recognizes the sound of chewing. The source of the sound reveals itself to him; sillily enough, the sight even makes Jerry’s heart jump, and maybe also sing a little, though he wouldn’t say so out loud. Dean’s there. He’s sitting up on the counter, swinging his legs like a little boy, alternating them left and right. And, by God, he’s eating peanut butter right out of the jar with a spoon, with a partially empty-- but not enough to excuse his behavior, Jerry thinks-- bottle of gin standing proudly on his left. Dean notices Jerry, but his mouth is full of peanut butter, and he winks and waves in greeting. Jerry notices what his partner is wearing, and his throat gets even drier than it was.

“This is some haute couture, bubbe, goodness,” he says, his tone poorly masking his thoughts.

Dean opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times, playing it up like the peanut butter could really seal his jaw shut, then says, “Yeah, you think so, Jer?”

Jerry cracks a smile, and lets his eyes travel from Dean’s face; he tips his face down to look at Dean’s broad chest. He’s just wearing his undershirt, but he looks like he’s been squeezed into it; the kitchen’s yellow lights glint off Dean’s well-muscled shoulders, and Jerry can see the form of the musculature of his torso grasped tightly by the undershirt. He’s in his boxers, too, and wouldn’t it be nice if they were a little tighter, Jerry thinks. It’s compensated for by Dean’s legs; Jerry thinks his partner has muscles on those legs he didn’t even know existed until now. And Jerry likes legs; he loves looking at women’s legs, and boy does he love looking at Dean’s. Dean’s still wearing those partially transparent black socks that he wears with his suit; the kind that stop halfway up a fella’s calf and cling tightly to the ankle. Jerry swallows; Dean’s still swinging his legs.

“I don’t believe you, Paul,” Jerry says, trying to disperse the heavy warmth coursing off of Dean, “I come downstairs, in my own house mind you, and you’re just eating my peanut butter.”

“You don’t like peanut butter, Jer,” Dean says, then raises an eyebrow, “Besides, why would I bargain on you making an appearance, even if you did wake up? For once, you’re the one of the two of us with a pretty woman in your bed, pally.”

“Ho ho, Paul,” Jerry snarks, then adds, “She’s asleep, you dirty old man. Is this what you think about all the time? You wake a woman up at a time like this?”

“Oh, absolutely, Jer,” Dean says, his eyes glittering with mischief, “Why do you think Jeanne threw me out?”

“And so you drown your sorrows in the world’s worst night time snack?” Jerry inquires, “That peanut butter is for my kids, you know, it’s one of the only things I can get them to all agree on.”

“Guess I’m just appealing to the sensibilities of the one kid in the house who ain’t hot on it,” Dean says, pointing the spoon at Jerry, “Incidentally, my favorite one here.”

Jerry can’t pinpoint why, but something about the way Dean says it just strikes him as sweet. It makes him blush a little, and he angles his face down, because Dean’s looking at him with great satisfaction glimmering in his eyes, like he’s got one up on Jerry. He’s no kid, not really. His view rests right on Dean’s lower legs, now, and he’s stopped swinging them, but his right sock has bunched up a little at the top and slid a couple of inches down his leg.

“Your sock’s slid down a little,” Jerry says, then says as a statement, “You look messy, bubbe, let me fix it.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just breathes in real deep, and puts the peanut butter jar down on the counter top next to him. Jerry pinches the sock’s thin material gently and pulls it up Dean’s leg. He runs his right hand slowly from the bone of Dean’s ankle to the top of the sock-- to smooth the fabric, of course-- squeezing the muscle of his partner’s calf affectionately. He takes his hand off Dean’s leg and looks up at him; Dean’s eyes are a little more lidded than usual, and his face has that youthful look it gets when he gets real relaxed.

“Hey, pal,” Dean says, his lips lifting in a lazy half-smile, “I think there’s a few more wrinkles in the sock.”

Dean does this sort of thing to Jerry, he messes with him, and it works him up like nobody’s business. He never stops Dean from doing it, though; it makes him feel teased, but it’s fundamentally affectionate, because Dean’s a real pussycat under everything, so more than anything, Jerry plays along because he likes when Dean shows him he loves him. He lets Dean have his fun, working him up. And it’d be remiss for Jerry to say it doesn’t turn him on, because, boy, does it.

“Where’s the wrinkles?” Jerry asks, wrapping his hand around the front of Dean’s ankle, rubbing his thumb on the side against the warm skin, “Here, bubbe?”

“Mhm,” Dean hums, then says, “And a little higher up, where you squeezed before.”

Jerry’s breath hitches in his throat, and he slides his hand up Dean’s leg, the fabric rough against his skin. He cups the muscle of Dean’s calf again, and he doesn’t just squeeze; this time, he really grabs him. Dean swallows loud enough for Jerry to hear, and he feels his partner shift, pressing into his touch, his calf muscles momentarily tensing against his very appreciative hand, and Jerry feels that go straight to his cock.

“You’ve sure got some strong legs, Paul,” Jerry says, but the light-hearted comment comes out strained.

“Like this, Jer?” Dean asks, and he clenches the muscle again, tightening and hardening against Jerry’s hand, and so he runs his hand up onto Dean’s thigh, foregoing the pretense of fixing his partner’s sock up, and just touching instead.

Dean’s skin is always so smooth, and Jerry can feel him relax his leg momentarily then tense it up again against his hand. He feels like he could start crying, maybe, what with how much he likes this; it’s just touching and stroking, but it’s making Jerry go crazy. Dean’s letting his legs relax again, because he can’t hold them like that for so long without cramping up. Jerry matches the hand on his partner’s right thigh and puts the other on his left. Beautiful, he thinks, and he pushes Dean’s legs apart a little, watching the tendons in his inner thighs flex momentarily. The movement pushes the gin and the peanut butter to the side, but Jerry registers the sound as if it comes from very far away. He slides his hands down, closer to Dean’s knees, over strips of sinew, and pushes his partner’s legs a little wider. Dean lets out a soft, discomfited grunt, and it prompts Jerry to look at what he’s done, really look.

Jerry’s head buzzes and he absolutely drinks in the scene before him, commits it to his sharp memory. Dean’s cheeks are pink and his stomach visibly moves in fast breaths. He’s hard, too, really hard, and Jerry can see Dean’s cock through his boxers, framed in the middle of his legs; he realizes he really is holding them obscenely far apart. And Dean’s letting him; all that muscle on him, and he’s just sitting there, letting it happen. The thought coupled with the visual is almost too much to take.

“Just gonna hold me spread apart and look?” Dean says, and it comes out breathy and desperate, which is a way Dean rarely sounds.

“Maybe for a bit longer,” Jerry responds.

He’s trying to sound measured, but he’s riled up and hard too, and his robe has fallen open, leaving a sliver of hairy chest and stomach on display. That’s where Dean’s eyes are now, traveling down Jerry’s slim torso, to the outline of his cock tenting his boxers. Dean rubs his big hands on Jerry’s forearms, fingers pressing briefly under his bathrobe sleeves to lovingly stroke Jerry’s furry wrists. He lies his hands, warm, on top of Jerry’s, on top of his own knees; Jerry feels all warm in his stomach from the bout of Dino-affection. But now Dean’s very still again, and though Jerry feels reassured, he also feels like a man possessed; somehow, the one thing that surpasses feeling up Dean is how much Dean likes it. And how much he’s showing it.

“I feel like a girl in the car back on Homecoming,” Dean murmurs, and Jerry laughs.

“You do this to your poor Homecoming date?” Jerry clicks his tongue with mock disapproval, “You’re awful, Paul, you know.”

Jerry rubs his thumb in a circle on the inside of Dean’s left knee, and Dean shudders a little. Jerry looks up just in time to see his cock harden up even more, shifting the boxer’s fabric with it. Dean shudders once more at the friction, and Jerry has to repress whispering out, “Wow,” in earnest, because every time Dean shakes, his legs tighten up, and there’s all that lovely muscle. What a fella, Jerry thinks.

Dean hums, nudging up against Jerry’s left hand, sliding his own hand from its place to allow his partner to move his hand, to stroke the length of his thigh. Jerry accepts the invitation, sliding his hand up, squeezing near the top, feeling Dean tense up momentarily then loosen against him. He feels good all tight, all hard, and he feels good relaxed, strength just sitting under the surface. Jerry thinks about how nice it would be to lie his head in Dean’s lap while they watch TV… Jerry thinks he’d like it if he could nuzzle close, feeling his face press against Dean’s cock through his pants. He’d like feeling it get hard up against him, poking into his cheek like it was trying to push into his mouth. Like Dean wanted to put it in his mouth…. Jerry’s getting carried away and he realize he’s been kneading at Dean’s thigh, pulling sharp, warm breaths from the man.

“It’s a wonder how far a nice pair of legs can get you, yeah, bubbe?” Jerry says, and it comes out with full confidence; it makes him feel like he’s finally one-up’d Dean’s swagger from earlier.

Dean mumbles something, and Jerry catches a hint of it, but not all.

“What’s that, honey?” Jerry asks, sliding his hand down to just above Dean’s knee, stroking gently at the warm skin, mostly with his fingers.

Dean shivers and slowly blinks his dark eyes; his black eyelashes flick down, up.

“I said,” Dean says, cheeks pink again, “That I keep ‘em nice for you.”

Jerry freezes, and it only lasts a second, but to him it feels like millennia. Dean’s statement certainly makes his boxers get a little tighter; it’s also a surprise, Dean doesn’t usually say things like this. Dean asserts his possession over Jerry, Dean teases him, and Dean usually pins him on his back, making him sing praises for his cock before he even gives it to Jerry.

“You seem so surprised,” Dean murmurs, taking Jerry out of his temporary state, “As if I don’t try and look nice for you all the time.”

What’s gotten into you, Dean? Jerry wants to ask. But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want this to stop.

“I know you try and look nice for me, bubbe,” Jerry says, sweetly, “And it’s working. Always dressed so nice and always so handsome when I take it off you.”

Dean’s melting, the flattery’s breaking his defenses down, Jerry supposes. Dean doesn’t get enough sweetness; he doesn’t allow it easily, but now Jerry can see how badly he needs it. Maybe he’s just tired out and needs to be cared for, what with the big blow-up between him and Jeanne, or maybe all the petting and stroking Jerry was doing awakened something. Jerry entertains the idea of magic hands, and realizes it’s conceited and ridiculous. Dean just needs some love, some care, after what’s gone down today. Jerry can see how bad his Paul needs it; with just a little attention and flattery, the poor Italian singer is beginning to come apart at the seams.

“You like what you see when I undress? Really?” Dean asks, and his voice is nearly at a whisper, almost like he’s ashamed to be egging Jerry on like this.

“‘Course,” Jerry says, and pinches Dean’s thigh; Dean lets out what Jerry swears is a surprised, thrilled sound, “I can’t help liking it. You’re so well-built; you’ve got such big shoulders, boy. And these muscled-up legs… could feel ‘em up all day, Paul.”

“Fuck,” Dean says, thickly, shutting his eyes, and Jerry wonders if he’s a little embarassed, “Every time I work out I think about you. And how much you like it, Jer, especially the legs. Think about…. you looking at me. Wanting to touch.”

“You’re a show-off,” Jerry says, “You want me looking at your legs all the time? Bet you’d like it if I grabbed your ass real hard through the nice pressed pants you wear, too, bubbe.”

Dean hums again, closing his eyes, then opens them, and says, soft, “As long as you take your time to feel me up properly, pal, maybe you can make me hard if you say something nice, too.”

“Like how happy I am that I caught a big, handsome Italian who just wants to look good for me?” Jerry says, sliding his hands up and down Dean’s inner thighs, teasing dangerously close to his cock, “And what a lovely one he is for keeping up this wonderfully strong physique just so I can enjoy it that much more when I feel him up?”

“Jesus, Jer,” Dean hisses, then says, barely measured, “I like that, a lot, especially ‘cause it’s really true. I keep myself all fit, just how you like it, because I know it makes you want to put your hands all over me.”

Jerry’s heart jumps in his chest, and he lifts his hands so he can slide the robe off his body. It’s getting far too hot in there for him to tolerate much longer. Jerry steps forward, but is stopped in his tracks by Dean following suit in the undressing; he peels off the undershirt, revealing the sculpted, hairless torso in full, finally. He throws the undershirt aside; Jerry notices a spot of sweat’s been soaking into the undershirt, in the center of Dean’s chest. He hadn’t noticed until now. Dean’s really hot and bothered, more than usual; Jerry knows him well, he’s a passionate and interested sex partner, but God, he’s just so worked up right now. He’s messed up, really, overwhelmed, and desperate for more. Jerry’s used to letting Dean have control in these contexts, because he trusts his partner more than anyone, but he has to admit, controlling this facet of his life, too, is giving him a real sense of satisfaction.

Jerry knows what he wants. He grabs Dean’s waist, scoots his partner towards him with slow effort; Jerry possesses a surprising amount of strength, but Dean really is big. Dean’s legs dangle more off the edge, and Jerry presses close to Dean, and Dean reciprocates, letting his knees and thighs brush against, flex against, Jerry’s hips and waist. Then, Dean’s wrapping his calf around his lower back, and Jerry feels the bone of his ankle, the muscle of his leg, and the warmth radiating all touching his skin, all through Dean’s sock— it’s kind of like a stocking material, he thinks. Jerry likes it, very much; it’s on Dean’s leg, after all. Jerry’s barred by the bit of space forced between them from rubbing up on Dean, and maybe that’s good, because whenever that happens, it always ends with Jerry letting Dean have whatever he likes. Always.

Jerry’s not to be deterred, though. He brushes his hand against Dean’s cheek— the hand not squeezing compulsively at the left thigh— and, when Dean leans his face into Jerry’s hand, kissing there gently, Jerry feels the rush of complete control. He never expected to feel this with Dean, especially not so spontaneously, and he’s nearly overwhelmed by how much he’s liking it. How much he’s liking the idea of his partner belonging to him; how much he likes the idea of Dean giving himself over to him. He puts his thumb under Dean’s chin, holding his face gently like he does with girls, and gives him a kiss. His big, handsome Italian, huh? It wasn’t even a joke, it’s true; maybe it won’t last past this night, but Dean’s securely under Jerry’s thumb for now.

Dean’s mouth is always so soft and he kisses so sweetly; he lets Jerry slip his tongue into his mouth first, and then there’s so much warmth, and Dean’s leg around Jerry’s lower back is flexing something wicked, pulling him in close. Jerry’s cock knocks against the edge of the counter, and he angles himself a little so his poor cock doesn’t get sandwiched against the hard metal by Dean’s insistence on closeness. Upon his slight repositioning, Dean’s inner thigh momentarily brushes against Jerry’s stomach; Jerry sighs, and Dean laughs into his mouth.

“What’s this?” Jerry asks, pulling his mouth off Dean’s, only to regale the column of his neck with a string of kisses, so murmuring, “What’s the laughing for?”

“Honey,” Dean practically purrs, and Jerry sucks particularly hard on Dean’s neck, leaving a mark, “Wasn’t making fun of you, I swear. Just got tickled by the hair. You monkey.”

Jerry laughs, and says, “Now, I don’t want you should ruin the mood, calling me a monkey. Might have to kiss you again to shut your mouth.”

“How terrible,” Dean says, dry, “Whatever shall I do?”

“Sit pretty,” Jerry replies, leaving one last wet kiss on the side of Dean’s neck, “And let me keep kissing you.”

And so he does. Jerry’s hand migrates from Dean’s face to his muscly, bare upper back; he strokes over the broad shoulders and drags his fingers over the sunkissed, near-golden skin of Dean’s back, then his neck… beautiful, Jerry thinks, again. And his hand that’s been grabbing at Dean’s leg? It’s tired out, Jerry thinks to himself and almost laughs at the silliness of the excuse as he slides his hand onto his prize: Dean’s cock. Dean makes a muffled noise against Jerry’s mouth; Jerry rubs it with the flat palm of his hand through the boxers. His resolve weakens, though, and reaches in, fetches it out. He doesn’t want to untangle himself from Dean; it’s too lovely to risk messing up just to take the boxers all the way off. He strokes Dean in his hand, languid and slow just to enjoy touching his cock in a way he doesn’t usually get to.

It makes Jerry wonder if it would drive Dean even further into this newfound complacency if he said something about his cock. He knows Dean’s proud of it, and he should be; it’s big, real big. And he knows how to use it, not that it matters much at the moment. He follows his gut as he speeds up his strokes, pulling his mouth away from Dean’s soft mouth and moving to whisper in his ear. Jerry’s nose bumps on Dean’s cheek and Dean smiles; Jerry lets out a strained half laugh, because he’s a bit preoccupied by how much he likes Dean’s cock in his hand like this, with no time limit, and under his control. He wetly kisses the outside of Dean’s ear and brushes his nose against the curly, soft hair nearby.

“Bubbe,” Jerry says, finding his footing verbally, and Dean hums expectantly in reply, “Hm, you’re real big, you know. All handsome. And here, too, honey, you’ve got such a nice cock to top it off.”

“Guess I was just lucky,” Dean says, and Jerry can feel his shoulder muscle tensing in his hand, “Lucky that it’s big enough. Want you to like it, honey.”

“Well, I guess you were real lucky,” Jerry murmurs, looking down between Dean’s thighs, marveling at the sight of his cock in his hand: the way it fills Jerry’s fist so easily, the curls of black hair above it, Dean’s heaving, sweat coated stomach…. “It’s nice when something so nice gets to be all mine, right, bubbe?”

Dean lets out a high “oh” that Jerry’s never heard before and bucks up into his tight fist. Jerry gives Dean some time to get it together to talk, and the wait is sure worthwhile. Dean’s got a surprise at every corner, it seems, and they’re all good.

“It’s all yours,” Dean slurs out, and Jerry knows that means he’s getting closer, “My cock, I mean, Jerry, it’s all yours. Your prize.”

“I was thinking of it as my prize earlier, you know, all nestled in between the thighs, since you’re keeping them all fit how I like,” Jerry has to resist grinning like a madman at the perfect alignment of language.

Dean’s getting less coherent, and he mumbles, looking at Jerry with hooded eyes, “Yeah, all that. Mostly just all yours.”

“I know,” Jerry says, “You’re my fella, Dean. You belong to me.”

Dean hums again— Jerry thinks consciously this time that he loves it, Dean’s like a songbird— and he looks at how his partner’s turning into a handsome, Italian rag doll right before his eyes. What’s the boy that comes with Raggedy Ann, he thinks, then remembers: Raggedy Andy. Well, here’s his own, but just big old Dino Crocetti, all 170 pounds of ex-boxer falling, pressing on him as he looks at Jerry with half shut eyes, messy hair, swollen lips, and those pretty flushed cheeks. The way Dean’s legs tense, wrap around him… Perfect, really. He’s Jerry’s; Jerry did this to him, made a mess out of Dean. He remembers the sweat that soaked through Dean’s undershirt and thinks: this was the start of this downward spiral. Jerry grabs Dean’s shoulder and gets purchase, pushing him up enough to fulfill his goal. Dean doesn’t complain, but utters his name, softly, as Jerry continues to stroke his cock in his hand, as before.

Dean’s torso is soaked with sweat, and because he doesn’t have a single hair on his chest, the light glistens clearly off of the lines and contours of his physique. Jerry thinks about Dean getting so hot and bothered that it soaked through the undershirt again, and he leans in to press a kiss in the center of Dean’s chest. Dean sighs, and it sounds so happy that Jerry lifts his full mouth and kisses him again; he kisses in the same place, the smooch is just for effect, and he knows Dean likes to be smooched, besides. Dean puts his big hand on the back of Jerry’s head; he strokes the short hair, and he strokes down Jerry’s shoulder. Jerry tries to keep his cool, but he can’t help but nuzzle up like a cat into Dean’s touch. Dean’s hands are big, some of the biggest hands Jerry’s ever seen on such a handsome fella, and he’s warm, too. It’s nice to be touched by him; he’s usually very steady handed, but Jerry can feel him shaking, now.

“Bubbe,” Jerry says, straightening up, cupping Dean’s face, looking him in the eye, as his strokes affectionately over Dean’s jaw and cheek bone with his fingers, “You’re shaking so much, you think you might be close?”

Dean takes a minute, and musters verbiage, “Real close. Feels so good.”

“Mhm,” Jerry says, “I bet. You going to cum all over my hand? Knowing you belong to me, Paul, and not the other way around?”

“Jerry,” Dean says, “Yeah, I’m gonna.”

“Oh?” Jerry adds, “Yeah, I bet you’ll lose it thinking about how much attention I’ve been giving all your hard work— you know, bubbe, those fit legs, and that pretty curly hair, and everything— you want I should like how you look so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dean says, and it sounds like he could burst into tears, because he’s so on edge, “Oh, God, it’s all for you, Jer.”

“I know, I know it is, sweetheart,” Jerry says, “You’re perfect, you’re doing just gorgeous, Paul.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and he shakes, really shakes, this time, and then he’s cumming, all over Jerry’s hand; Jerry keeps stroking at his partner’s cock, really bringing it home. Finally, Dean lets out a noise of slight discomfort, and Jerry feels his dick soften in his hand a little, the last spurt of spunk dripping down the side of his fist. Dean’s a mess; he looks so handsome like this, but he really does look as if he was left in an alley all night.

“Jerry,” Dean slurs; he’s momentarily hazy, “That was so lovely, pally. It felt so good.”

“You’re amazing,” Jerry responds gently, painfully aware of how hard he still is, “You really always are, Paul.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, and adds in earnest, “It really is all for you.”

“I know, bubbe,” Jerry says, then adds, “Let’s get you off the counter.”

Dean tucks his cock back into his boxers; the modicum of decency.

“Thanks, Jer,” Dean murmurs, sliding himself off with the help of Jerry’s hands holding his hips.

Putting only partial weight on Jerry of course, Dean stands himself up straight, stretching his back.

“Sure takes a long time to get used to standing without my hand on your cock, doesn’t it, Paul?” Jerry asks, and Dean gives him an exaggerated withering look.

“Don’t push it, Jer, I’m down here to get you off, you know,” Dean says, smiling tiredly.

“O-oh,” Jerry says, and feels stupid for not expecting it; of course Dean would get him off.

Dean hands Jerry a paper towel wordlessly, first, to wipe his own hand off with. Just as fast as Jerry finishes with it, Dean grabs it, and throws it aside.

“People eat in here, you can’t just go around throwing our… rags,” Jerry protests, as Dean plants a big hand on his bare waist, paying his complaints no mind and pulling him close.

“I’ll get it later, so stop complaining,” Dean says, and punctuates this by pressing his thigh between Jerry’s, rubbing it up against his cock.

“Bubbe,” Jerry whines practically, “Don’t be rough.”

“All sensitive from being neglected this whole time?” Dean asks, teasingly, “Too busy making your… what was it? Big, handsome Italian… mhm. Me. Too busy making me feel good?”

Jerry’s cheeks are burning and he curses himself as he rubs up on Dean, desperate for release, and Dean’s talk is getting to him.

“You’re terrible, bubbe,” Jerry says, as Dean’s big hands stroke up his torso, taking their time, holding him in place— cock against Dean’s thigh, that is— by his waist, “You’re just trying to make a mess out of me and it won’t work, you rotten fink.”

“Feisty,” Dean comments, and now his big hand not still on his waist is rubbing Jerry’s stomach just how he likes; firm and affectionate but not so hard he pulls the hair there and hurts him, “Why don’t you just give your poor fella a chance, Jer? You might like what I have to say.”

Jerry tries to harumph, but Dean ignores it blatantly, instead letting go of Jerry long enough to rid him of his boxers. Dean takes a moment to wrap his hand around Jerry’s cock, admiring silently how little Jerry looks in his hand. And that’s not easy, because Jerry’s not lacking in this department, either. Dean’s just got big hands; even though he doesn’t want to say it after his brush with sexual control, Jerry loves watching the way Dean’s hand envelops his cock so easily. He’s curious, though; Dean said he might like what he had to say?

With perfect timing to Jerry’s thought, Dean speaks, saying, “I thought I’d tell you about what I thought of when I came.”

Dean’s blushing, and Jerry suspects it’s because of genuine discomfort, but then he derails Jerry’s mind easily; he pulls Jerry closer, reaches his hand to stroke at his partner’s torso again. Jerry supposes it makes sense, Dean’s a petter, and Jerry’s not lacking in the fur department. It feels nice to be touched, though, and also that Dean likes it, really likes it; Jerry’s having a moment of slight removal as he sometimes does where he wonders what it is Dean sees in him, but he figures as long as Dean keeps liking him so much, he’s not going to complain about it. Why worry about a good thing? Dean’s other hand picks up the speed stroking at Jerry’s cock, and Jerry’s launched back into the action right away.

“Thought you’d like to hear what your fella thought about,” Dean’s nose nuzzles against Jerry’s cheek and he plants a wet, tired kiss on the boy.

“Why don’t you tell me, then? Of course I want to, sweetheart,” Jerry says, and he sounds strained, but it’s all because of the big, warm hands touching him so sweetly.

“It’s kind of embarrassing to me, pal,” Dean says, and Jerry can tell he’s not playing around; that’s real vulnerability shining through.

“Bubbe,” Jerry pulls himself up and kisses Dean’s mouth, lingering longer than necessary for a smooch, “It’s alright, okay? Wouldn’t want my big, handsome Italian to be shy, now would I?”

Dean cracks a smile at that, and he sits down on the floor, taking Jerry with him. Jerry figures that Dean’s just a little tired of holding him up, and that’s fine; of course Dean’s tired. Plus, now Jerry gets to sit in Dean’s lap, nestled atop his partner’s perfectly built thighs and he buries his face in Dean’s shoulder for a blissful few seconds as Dean gets situated. Then Dean’s hand’s back on Jerry’s cock, and he pulls his face out of his partner’s shoulder, looking expectantly at him, waiting to hear it.

“It’s hard to say it when you look at me like that, Jer,” Dean says, averting his gaze.

“You’re so cute,” Jerry murmurs, then says louder, “Bubbe, it’s okay, it can’t be so bad. And I want to cum, can’t you just tell me and we can be embarassed and discuss it later?”

Dean looks like he’s going to say something, but then he decides against it and says, “Sounds wonderful, Jer.”

Jerry leans in and kisses the place where Dean’s neck and shoulder meet, and Dean hums in that lovely way again.

“I was thinking,” Dean says, as he strokes Jerry, his other hand now slung around his back instead of petting him; he’s holding him so nicely, “About you taking me, you know.”

Jerry lets out a gasp, “Bubbe, what?”

Dean blushes, really blushes, and his eyes look shiny, “See, I told you it was embarrassing.”

Jerry feels a shot of guilt in his chest, because he really didn’t intend for his reaction to be a confirmation of Dean’s fear of humiliation.

“Bubbe,” Jerry says, kissing Dean’s nose, and, yes, he’s a bit of a mess because Dean’s big hand stroking him— though slower— has certainly not ceased, “No, no, no, I think it’s wonderful, and I want you should let me do that to you, too. I’ve wanted it, so bad since I met you, I just thought….”

Jerry trails off, feeling Dean’s stroking speed up, and he lets out a sigh. Dean sneaks his hand up Jerry’s chest again, petting at him, then thumbing at his nipple idly, as if he’s not driving Jerry up the wall. Dean pulls his hand away, licks his thumb and forefinger while Jerry watches, enthralled, then returns the hand to his partner’s chest. Soon enough, what with all Dean’s doing, he’s got Jerry, vocalizing and shuddering, in his lap. But— Jerry’s holding back, and anyone would know that he’s still waiting. He wants to hear the rest.

“I just…” Dean grasps for the words, because he’s never allowed himself to entertain this idea before, “I like it when you act like I belong to you. And I do, I guess, Jer. I’m your fella, and your pal, but I was just thinking about how good it would make me feel for you to enjoy me. You know, be inside of me, and get to…” Dean swallows, “Get to feel me up how you like. How I know you like.”

Jerry makes a noise and pushes his hips in the direction of Dean’s hand; Dean’s other hand is still on his chest, and it's cruel almost how good this feels.

“Paul,” Jerry says, labored, “Honey, you have no idea how bad I want to. To have you, you’re so handsome— you’re a real man’s man, you know? You’re mine, it’s what I want.”

“Yeah, Jerry,” Dean says, acting veritably less embarrassed now that Jerry’s on the bandwagon, and maybe he humors Jerry a little, not lying but focusing on what he wants to hear, so the kid will lose it in his lap. “Jer, honey, you know I’ve never taken it before. You’d be the first, you know, and you’d get to hold me down and make me yours. All yours.”

Jerry’s close; his eyes fall shut and then open, wild and hazel, to stare at Dean. He’s thinking about what his partner’s telling him; he’s picturing how it will feel to press against Dean like that. The feeling of warmth, and how Dean would fall to pieces, make a mess of himself so easy like he did earlier, this time, though, with Jerry inside of him. And he wants to be.

“You’ll be so tight,” Jerry says, and Dean makes a sound and his cheeks get flushed, which makes Jerry add on, though he’s nearing incoherency, “It’s not embarrassing, bubbe, it’s nice to bury your cock in someone tight. You know that, too, Paul, just as well as any guy…”

Jerry trails off, unable to say more, and Dean elaborates, pushing Jerry towards the precipice, “I think you’re right, Jer. Won’t it be nice how I’ll do everything for you? I’ll just be here to make you feel good, you know? Like I said, I’m yours.”

“Shit,” Jerry says, incredibly eloquently, and Dean narrowly escapes laughter.

Jerry’s eyes are open and he’s looking at Dean like he’s going to eat him for dinner, maybe; his eyes scan up and down his partner’s body, more manic than even before. And then he cries out, and falls against Dean’s chest. Jerry buries his nose in Dean’s skin, letting out a litany of expletives as his hips come to meet Dean’s big, waiting hand; he’s fast and irregular, and he whispers out Dean’s middle name into his skin as he finishes. Jerry, in a character-typical chaotic fashion, makes a mess all over Dean, then throws his arms around Dean’s shoulders, catching his breath.

“Bubbe,” Jerry whispers in Dean’s ear, softly, “Would you really let me do any of that?”

Dean makes an affirmative sound, because he’s catching his breath too. Then, he lifts Jerry off his lap and seats him on the ground.

“That’s terrible, you take me back right now,” Jerry says, then adds, “And you didn’t even answer my question, you dirty old man.”

“Jerry, pal,” Dean says, gently, “We have got to clean up this mess before your wife or, worse, one of the boys see it.”

“Under the condition you hold me afterwards,” Jerry says, then smiles evilly, “And answer me.”

“Of course, you monkey,” Dean says, standing up, and then reaching his hand out to help up Jerry.

As quietly as they can, the two of them gathering several paper towels and wet them; they wipe up the mess they made and Dean wipes Jerry’s cum off of his thigh. Jerry can’t keep eye contact with him while he does, which makes Dean laugh. Then, Jerry’s pulling his robe back on. As he tightens the rope around his waist, he looks up at Dean, over his shoulder.

“Bubbe, when are you going to answer my question? You can’t ignore me forever, you know,” Jerry says with a half smile.

“I did, I think,” Dean responds, his brow furrowed.

“Affirmative noises aren’t an answer. You’re beating around the bush, and I still have a part of my brain that’s disconnected from The Idiot, you know, sweetheart,” Jerry doesn’t say this meanly, but there’s an edge of potential bitterness that could be fostered into an argument, were he to receive the wrong response.

Dean hopes his response is right, “I like everything about you, Jer, I really do. And I think I’d enjoy taking it from you, and I like being yours.”

Jerry smiles at Dean, “Well, why didn’t you say that before, Paul.”

“There’s more to it,” Dean shrugs, as he deposits several of the unfortunate paper towels into the trashcan once and for all.

“Such as?” Jerry prompts.

“Such as: I have opinions and needs,” Dean begins, then pauses to figure out how to articulate his point.

“Everybody does, bubbe,” Jerry shrugs.

“I know, I’m Italian, not intellectually damaged, Jer,” Dean says, and Jerry laughs.

Jerry turns and throws away the remaining rags, then runs the sink quietly to wash his hands. He can practically hear Dean thinking, so he takes his time drying his hands on the towel. Dean wordlessly eyes Jerry’s clean hands, then sheepishly goes to wash his own.

“Don’t you mention anything about me not doing that without the prompt, pally,” Dean points, mock threateningly, “Or I’ll have to call some of my Italian friends.”

“Bubbe,” Jerry bats his eyelashes jokingly, “If the Italian friends are anything like you are, I can’t see myself minding them too much.”

“No, no,” Dean cracks a smile, “They’re not Italians like me, Jer, they’re Italians like Frank.”

“I understand it’s a joke,” Jerry says, “But Frank ain’t bad looking, sweetheart.”

“Alright, Jer, you were effective in making me go back to the conversation we were having before. I won’t discuss this about Frank, it’s upsetting, really,” Dean jokes, and Jerry laughs, then looks on intently.

“Well?” Jerry inquires.

“I was saying…. what?” Dean pauses to think.

“Opinions and Needs,” Jerry says, in a transatlantic accent, writing it in the air with his finger as if it were a chapter header.

Dean laughs, then speaks seriously, “Look, Jer, I just meant… I do want to let you take me. I trust you, pal, and I love you. And it turns me on, really, Jerry, it does. I just…. I guess what I’m going to say is stupid, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re going to say, so I’ll wager a bet for “not stupid,”” Jerry flashes Dean a smile.

“You like being in control, sexually, in a way that I didn’t know until now, Jer, and that’s nice. But I don’t…” Dean trails off again.

“Sweetheart,” Jerry says, and he looks horribly guilty, “Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t like you being in charge, too. I do like that.”

“You didn’t cause that, but that clears up one part of what I was going to say,” Dean smiles and it’s warm and genuine, “I was just going to say, well, I don’t want to miss out on pushing your buttons, kid, because it’s just so nice— and I really like to get on top of you, and…. you know.”

“Yeah,” Jerry smirks, knowingly, “I do know, since I was there when it happened.”

“The only other thing is real, but I worry I’ll sound sappy,” Dean murmurs, “So please take it in its intended meaning, alright pal?”

“Yeah, of course. Spit it out, bubbe,” Jerry says, gesturing, “It’s getting closer to the part of morning where normal people come downstairs and ask questions, every second you waste.”

“You really like the idea of me being yours, and I get it, you know, the context… it really did it for me… but, Jerry,” Dean looks up at Jerry, and Jerry thinks, he must think the sun rises and sets on me with that expression, and he wishes he could save it and keep it for the rest of his life in a form with more permanence than his memory.

Dean continues, “I want to be yours, but I need you to be mine, too.”

“Dean,” Jerry says, dead serious— after all, he’s not calling Dean his middle name— and he looks several years older as he takes Dean’s hands in his, “You haven’t known?”

“Known what?” Dean furrows his brow.

Jerry smiles, and squeezes Dean’s hands in his own. He kisses him gently— not a smooch nor a sexually passionate kiss, a real cross— on the mouth, and then regards him with genuine love in his eyes.

“You’re such a silly man, bubbe,” Jerry says to his Dean, “I’ve been yours since the moment I met you. You’re the one who took some time to warm up.”

Dean looks up at the ceiling thinking for a moment, then nods slowly, “Well, I did tell you to get a dog when you signed us up for work together, Jer, you have a point there.”

Jerry laughs, and then says, “It was funny, but it did make me feel a bit hurt, you know, but life went on. And now? I listen to you worry about this, for what? I was destined to drive you up the wall from our first meeting, and things will never go back to how they once were; so goes it, bubbe.”

“Well, monkey, what matters is that I love you now,” Dean says, “So I’m not missing out anymore. And, regardless of whatever bizarre theatrical drama your preaching about destiny was supposed to relate to, I was missing out before you were my pal.”

“I was just trying to make my point— whatever, it’s not relevant, bubbe. The point— I don’t know what I would’ve done if it weren’t for you,” Jerry says, and his eyes are shining a little, “And I’m glad we’re on the same page about everything now.”

“Me too, Jer,” Dean says, holding his arms out, “Bring it in, kid, c’mon, I said I’d hold you. You and your pop-up theatrical performance.”

“Oh boy,” Jerry responds, and allows Dean to envelop him in his warmth.

“Happy, idiot?” Dean asks, and Jerry nods, and buries his head in Dean’s shoulder.

“I know,” Jerry whispers as if it shouldn't be said, “That I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

“I can’t see anything that would stop me from feeling the same way.” Dean says.

Jerry wishes he could stay in Dean’s arms forever. Unfortunately, the practical fact that Patti will come down to the kitchen at some point to make breakfast throws a bit of a wrench in his fantasy. But, if Jerry could magically transfigure himself and Dean into something connected, something inherently symbiotic, he would, however far out of left field it may sound. If they could, respectively, be the body of a tree and the roots of the same tree, or the left and right lung of an animal, then maybe he wouldn’t feel lonely anymore. Thinking about this is silly, though, because it’s impossible to enact. Jerry supposes, though, the way Dean’s smiling at him when he lets him go from the warmth of his embrace, by itself, is enough.