“I want you,” Dean tells him.
Henry’s breath catches, just for a second, and then he comes back to reality. He’s already been through this – Dean trying to make something happen that can’t – and he doesn’t want to go through it again tonight. “That’s what you wanted to say? Can’t you just leave it be?”
He tries to pull his hands away, but Dean’s holding them tight, his hands folded awkward and hot around Henry’s. “Please, Henry,” says Dean. His eyes are deep and earnest, which might be the worst part.
“You’re making everything worse,” says Henry, yanking his hands away. They’re in Dean’s living room, just the two of them – Dean said the boys were sleeping over at a friend’s – but Henry doesn’t want to be alone with Dean. He’s still in love with Dean, and Dean’s still straight, and Dean trying to act like that’s okay is never going to make it better.
He turns away and walks down the hallway towards the door. After a second, Dean follows him, reaching out to grab him by the arm. “Henry – I love you.”
Henry turns. He wishes Dean didn’t look so sincere. So handsome. “We’ve already been over this –“
“No, Henry, just listen – I want you –“
Henry shakes his head, but Dean takes his face in his hands, rough and hot. God, Dean’s hands. In high school, Henry would watch them during class, and later he would jack off just thinking about them. Nothing specific, even, just the shape of them, square and strong. The size of them.
Dean kisses him.
Part of Henry wants to stop this, but Dean’s holding him tight, and it’s too late anyway. It’s too late not to lean into the hard push of Dean’s mouth against his. Too late not to open his mouth for Dean’s tongue, sweeping hot against his. On every heartbeat Henry is convinced Dean will pull away, will say this is a mistake, and somehow all he can do is cling to the front of Dean’s shirt and hope he gets a few moments more.
Dean doesn’t pull away. He keeps kissing Henry, hard, and his hands are moving, squeezing Henry’s shoulders, then running down his arms, then back to his face, rough and urgent like he’s trying to touch every part of Henry. Henry melts under Dean’s hands, leaning into him, kissing him like this is his last chance.
This will be his last chance, he realizes. There’s no future here. God, why is he doing this to himself again?
Henry breaks the kiss. But Dean keeps his arms around him, not letting him pull away. “See?” says Dean, breathless. “We can do this, Henry. We can have this.”
Henry twists his hands in Dean’s shirt. He wants that to be true, more than anything, but – “Dean, you’re straight.”
“I don’t care about that. I love you.”
“I’m sorry about before, I was scared. But I know I want you, Henry.” He’s so earnest. Henry’s heart is swooping wildly between hope and cynicism.
“You have two kids,” he says. “You like women.”
“Maybe I –“ Dean stops. He looks a little pink but no less determined. “Can’t I like both?”
Henry hadn’t thought of that. It’s hard to get his head around, that Dean could be the person he always knew he was – the woman-loving, kid-having person – and also be the person he fantasized he was.
He swallows. “Well… do you? Like both?”
Dean cups Henry’s face in his hands, thumbs warm on his cheeks. “I know I want you. I never stopped thinking about you, and since you came back, I just –” His voice is hoarse and his eyes hot. “God, you make me crazy, Henry.”
A shiver rushes up Henry’s spine and he swallows. Why is he fighting this? He’s already given in a hundred times in his head, it would be so easy. He uncurls his hands from Dean’s shirt and flattens them, feeling the rapid rise and fall of Dean’s chest. “Don’t do this if you’re going to change your mind,” he tries.
“I won’t,” says Dean fiercely, and before Henry can say anything, Dean kisses him again. His hands are on Henry’s jaw, tilting his face, coaxing his mouth open. Henry leans into him and kisses back. He knows this could be disastrous, he does, but he feels helpless to fight it. It’s dizzying, like being a teenager again, getting just drunk enough to make stupid decisions.
Dean’s hands slide down his arms and run down his back, land at his waist and yank him in close. Henry stumbles against Dean and he can feel Dean’s belt buckle against his stomach, and above that the hard muscles of Dean’s stomach. On instinct he curls his hands around Dean’s back so they can press closer, chest to chest.
There’s so little room for a voice of reason when there’s so many sensations to process, when Dean’s hands keep moving over his back, his arms, back up to his face, rubbing through his hair. Dean kisses with dizzying urgency, licking hungrily into Henry’s mouth. Henry’s whole body feels hot and shivery with need, arousal tugging at his stomach.
Suddenly Dean pushes a hand between them and grabs at Henry’s crotch. Henry’s embarrassingly hard in his jeans and Dean’s touch makes him jerk back and gasp, “God, Dean,” but Dean palms the bulge of his erection, rough but sure, and Henry drops his forehead to Dean’s shoulder and pants, “Dean,” in an entirely different tone of voice.
Dean tilts his head and noses into Henry’s hair, breath coming fast and hot. Henry just gasps, mouth open against Dean’s shoulder. The way Dean smells is thrillingly familiar, something of mud and pine needles and sweat. Once, Henry had ended up wearing Dean’s t-shirt home after a game of touch football. They were 17, and Henry kept the shirt for another week, taking long guilty breaths of the sweaty Dean smell of it. It seems ridiculous and embarrassing thinking back on it – but here he is, biting down on the collar of Dean’s shirt as he grinds against the heel of Dean’s hand.
Dean’s other hand slides up Henry’s back, rucking up his polo, gathering it in a fist. Eagerly Henry tugs Dean’s shirt up too, hands sliding up the broad shape of his chest. Dean is so hot it’s ridiculous, in better shape even than he was as a teenager, solid muscles shifting under Henry’s hands.
Henry still feels too dizzy to really think, too drunk on the feeling of Dean’s skin. This is everything he ever wanted, and he can’t do anything but go for it, pulling at Dean’s shirt until Dean stops to tug it over his head. His hair comes out mussed and his eyes dark and hungry, and for a second Henry is frozen with pure want, his heart beating wildly against his ribs.
Dean is moving, grabbing Henry’s shirt and pulling it off him. As soon as it's off, Dean's there, kissing him, hands sliding up Henry’s bare sides. Henry shudders, clutching at Dean, kissing hungrily back. And then Dean’s hands go down to Henry’s ass, slide into the pockets of his jeans to pull him in close. Dean’s thigh is between Henry’s legs and Dean’s cock is an unmistakable pressure against his hip.
“Dean,” gasps Henry, something like a warning. They can’t go back from this. Maybe they never could, and Henry doesn’t want to, but maybe Dean –
“Stop worrying,” pants Dean. His hands are on Henry’s hips now, pulling him close so they’re flush from chest to thigh, and his thumbs dip under Henry’s waistband in a way that chases the last coherent thoughts from Henry’s mind. He wants this so much, there's not room for anything else.
Henry grinds against Dean like a teenager, need rolling up through his body, sparking where his stomach and chest slide against the warm friction of Dean’s skin. He pulls Dean as tightly to him as he can, like they can stop being two wildly different people and become one. Dean holds him just as tight and kisses him until Henry’s dizzy.
Henry’s exquisitely aware of the shape of Dean’s cock, the hot jolt of arousal it sends through him every time their hips come together. He’s utterly lost in what’s happening, and at the same time, his body thrums for more, aching with twenty years’ worth of sexual tension. Dean’s hands are on Henry’s ass again, squeezing it, hitching him closer, and Henry makes a soft, encouraging sound against Dean’s lips.
He feels Dean shudder against him. “God, why are you so –“
Dean’s sentence ends in a wordless groan, and suddenly he takes hold of Henry and turns him around. Henry stumbles and catches himself on the wall of the hallway and then Dean’s pushing up against him from behind, body pressing Henry’s to the wall, breath coming hard against the back of Henry’s neck.
Dean ducks his head and bites Henry where his neck meets his shoulder, hard.
“Sorry,” gasps Dean, pulling back and then gingerly kissing the spot he bit. “I – I want you so bad, Henry, I don’t know what to do with myself –” His hands are on Henry’s hips and his body’s moving against Henry’s, in slow, desperately rolls that push the shape of his cock against Henry’s ass.
“Well, this is good,” Henry tells him, faintly. Dean huffs a breathless laugh against Henry’s neck. Good is woefully inadequate, when Henry’s pulse is pounding hot through his veins, arousal spiking in his stomach at the feeling of Dean’s cock against him, even through their pants. All Henry can do is bite his lip and push eagerly back against Dean, thinking about how much he wants no clothes between them – nothing between them –
Henry never ever imagined Dean fucking him, not in high school. He wanted Dean with everything he was, wanted the weight of Dean’s body on top of him, but he didn’t dare going into further detail. When he was older and sex was a little less confusing and forbidden, then Dean would show up in his fantasies – big hands on Henry’s hips, pushing into him with just enough roughness to make Henry cry out – and afterwards Henry would hate himself for thinking about Dean again.
The problem is that real-life Dean is just as rough as Henry always fantasized, grinding hard against him, hands grabbing at his hips, his stomach, and also just as gentle as Henry always knew him, kissing the back of Henry’s neck between panting breaths. It’s overpowering.
They should stop and talk, Henry knows – but already Dean’s hands are sliding down to Henry’s belt and tugging it open. Henry’s voice catches on a gasp as Dean pulls down the zipper of his fly with one hand and slides the other under the waistband of his boxers to close around his cock. “Oh –“
Dean’s hand is on Henry’s cock, sliding slow and tight, up and down. Henry’s been achingly hard since Dean’s lips touched his and Dean’s hand feels so good he can’t breathe. His whole body rocks up into Dean’s touch, helpless as iron to a magnet.
Suddenly Dean pulls away. Henry’s heart lurches, confused, but he hears the jangle of Dean's belt and electric anticipation buzzes through him. Dean tugs both their pants down and when he leans back in, they’re skin to skin, Dean’s cock pressing against Henry’s ass.
They both groan, low and desperate. Henry arches his back, pushes back into Dean, spreads his legs so Dean’s cock slides between his cheeks. It’s unbearable, thick and hot against him, brutal and intimate. Dean grabs at his ass, squeezing his cheeks as he grinds his cock between them, and Henry can only moan.
“God, Henry,” gasps Dean, voice strained and tight. “Christ.” He gets a hand on Henry’s cock again, tight and rough, and the other is wrapped around Henry’s chest, pressing their bodies together. Everything is hot friction of skin on skin and desperate little jerks of their hips together.
Dean’s swearing, saying Henry’s name, until with a cut-off groan he buries his face in Henry’s neck. His mouth is on Henry’s skin but even that’s not enough to stop the noises he keeps making, hungry little groans with each jerk of his hips.
Henry braces his elbows on the wall and pushes back against Dean, rolling his hips into the press of Dean’s cock against him, Dean’s hand big and hot around his cock. What must they look like, grinding like animals in Dean’s hallway, pants around their ankles – the thought twists Henry’s stomach tighter with need. It seems like fate that they should end up like this, unrefined and impatient and perfect.
Dean’s gasping against Henry’s neck. “Henry, I’m, fuck, I’m gonna –“
Henry can feel the urgency in Dean’s words echoed perfectly through his own body. Arousal’s shivering through every part of him, winching tighter with every slide of Dean’s fist, making him buck in Dean’s arms. Dean groans and bites down on Henry’s shoulder and that’s it.
They were always different as kids, liked different stuff – but sometimes they’d be in sync. They’d come up with the same idea or start talking at the same time. Henry always treasured those moments, took them as proof that they were meant for each other.
It’s so many years later now, and here they are, pressed against each other as they come at the same time. Henry can feel the pulse of Dean’s cock, pressed tight between their bodies, and it makes it that much more intense, wave after wave of white-hot pleasure as he comes in Dean’s hand.
There’s a final shivering moment and then Dean collapses against him, pressing him flat to the wall, breathing hard in his ear. On impulse Henry reaches back and curls a hand around Dean’s head, and Dean tilts into the touch, nuzzling into Henry’s hair. They stay like that for a long moment, not speaking, just letting their heart rates gradually slow.
Eventually Dean noses along Henry’s cheek and tries to catch his mouth, so Henry turns his head so their mouths meet, sideways and messy. When Dean shifts Henry takes the chance to turn around, and that’s even better, lets them kiss slow and deep for a long time.
When they break apart, Dean still looks a little dazed, but he’s smiling. Henry loves him so much it hurts, that familiar feeling of falling – but this time instead of turning away, he lets himself lean forward and press another kiss to Dean’s lips.
“I’m sorry,” says Dean afterwards. “That I didn’t figure my shit out until now.”
“Well, I’m happy you did,” Henry tells him, smiling.
“Yeah,” Dean says. Even now he’s still touching Henry, hands moving gently over his arms, around his back, like he can’t get enough of him.
His fingers brush a bruise on Henry’s neck and Henry winces. Dean looks down. “Um, I really did a number on your neck,” he says, rueful but distinctly proud.
Henry laughs at the look on his face. “I’ll wear a turtleneck.”
Really, he doesn’t care. Let everyone know that he’s in love with Dean and that Dean’s in love with him.
Thinking about it, he’s pretty sure the whole town already knows, anyway.