Dean had to grin as Dempsey grabbed a pillow; he certainly didn't mind, in fact he enjoyed it immensely, but his neighbors didn't need to know what he got up to at this time of night.

After easing into it, he went by instinct, reading Dempsey's movements and gauging by his reactions. Dean muttered a barely audible "Fuck," at that little motion of Dempsey's hips, feeling the squeeze with each thrust. He held tight, likely leaving bruises at his fingertips, but too gone to care. He steadily increased the pace until his breathing became labored and he could feel the climax coming, encouraged by every sigh and sound.

He held out for as long as he could, but had enjoyed himself too thoroughly to try and tease out a longer release. Finally the orgasm hit him with one final thrust and he let go, leaning over, spent with the effort of it. After a moment to catch his breath, lowly he eased back a little at first, then off the bed. He could feel the flush on his skin and the slight sheen of sweat from the exertion of it all. The room smelled like sex and Dean, for one, felt completely satisfied by it.

Far too at home in his own space, he cleaned up quickly, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and his pack of smokes from the table to bring back to the bed. He settled down again next to Dempsey, still in the mood for the other man's skin on his, but not to cuddle exactly. He popped open the cork of the whiskey and took a deep swig. "You should probably get comfortable," he said as he offered both the whiskey or the smokes to Dempsey if he wanted one or the other. "I have every intention of doing that again before the morning." If Dempsey was into it, of course.