Dean was loath to surrender the contact after going so long without, but he supposed he couldn't argue with the loss of the layers. Dempsey had been gratuitously overdressed for the occasion to begin with.

As Dempsey sunk to the floor, Dean had to chuckle. There was always that rush of lust at the sight and Dean couldn't ignore feeling of it swimming in his bloodstream. He leaned back, arms on the back of the couch, lifting his hips only enough to allow for the fabric to slide off easier. This was a dangerous game, tipping just a little over the edge and he'd be useless for anything further, but he was pretty good at knowing the limit.

Things progressed to the point where he had to tap out and instead hauled Dempsey off the floor, hands under his thighs as he'd taken him up the stairs and tossed him on the bed. Nothing too unexpected, nothing even remotely as aggressive as last week, firm, but not anything that had been a problem in the past. He'd taken his time, though not agonizingly slow, to reach a good build up before giving in.

It wasn't until he was spent and splayed out on the bed with Dempsey beside him, the Dean realized he'd probably needed that more than he'd realized. "Your cigs are in the nightstand." He waved lazily with one hand in its general direction, but he was too tired to move.