13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

“Hey, wait up,” Brody called out, chasing Ramsey down outside the rink.

It had been four days since the game they’d nearly lost because of that stupid power play goal and their argument after. Ramsey had ignored multiple texts, and whenever they were at the rink and at practice, he made sure there were other players and coaches around. Brody hadn’t been able to pin him down to talk since.

Except now.

He’d seen Ramsey ducking out, and he’d grabbed his bag, barely dressed, and chased after him.

His parents were in town, and tonight they, and Dean , were going to dinner. But first, he needed to clear the air with his best friend.

The guy he’d thought was his best friend. Lately, he was beginning to think that that particular position—and so much more—belonged to Dean, now.

Ramsey finally turned around. He had that blank look on his face. The one he seemed to wear around Brody a lot, lately. The one Brody hated. The one Brody was semi-tempted to punch off. “What?” he asked.

“Listen, I’m sorry, again, about the penalty,” Brody said, thinking that starting off with an apology and not an accusation like, You’re being fucking weird and it’s not helping my own weirdness about everything might make Ramsey more willing to listen.

It didn’t.

Ramsey’s face closed down even more. “I know,” he said. “You’re so fucking sorry.”

“That’s not fair,” Brody said. He refused to look away. Stared right at Ramsey, at the guy who’d taken him under his wing the moment he’d shown up on campus. Who’d been a mentor, but even more than that, a friend . And now seemingly had abandoned him, because of one stupid mistake—and a whole lot of questions.

“Nothing’s fair,” Ramsey said. “We were supposed to be unstoppable this year. I wanted us to be unstoppable. Instead, half the time it feels like you wanna be someplace else.” He paused. Made a face. “With someone else.”

“Wait. Are you jealous ?” Brody could barely believe it. Was he jealous of Dean? Had he . . . no. There was no fucking way Ramsey had felt that way about him. He’d have known. He’d have sensed it.

But then, in the last two months, it didn’t feel like he really knew Ramsey anymore.

“Not the way you think,” Ramsey said. “Trust me. Dean’s welcome to you, that way. I just . . .after last year got fucked up with your injury, this was supposed to be our year, Brody. You know it. I know you do. We fucking talked about being that team on the ice. It was gonna propel both of us to the NHL. And when Coach B showed up and he wanted the same thing, to get us there, I thought it might actually happen. I really wanted it. I want it. And suddenly, you just fucking don’t. Not anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“I know,” Brody said.

Ramsey shot him a look full of frustrated venom, and the worst part was that Brody couldn’t even blame him for it. This whole thing of Brody’s probably really fucking sucked for his teammates, for Ramsey specifically, but then it also sucked for him, too.

It wasn’t like he’d chosen this sudden, pervasive doubt. All these undeniable questions.

“And that’s supposed to help?” Ramsey challenged. “That you know? That you feel so fucking bad, too?”

“No,” Brody said. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hug Dean. He wanted Dean to remind him again that this was allowed. That he was supposed to do what he wanted. Not what everyone else wanted from him.

Before Ramsey could rail at him again for things he couldn’t prevent, couldn’t change, Brody continued, “If it’s not you and me together anymore, you being pissed off about this is part of it. If I want to be around other people, it’s because they don’t judge me, don’t sit around waiting for the old Brody to show again. They accept that I don’t fucking know anymore. If I’m choosing them , that’s why.”

And because of everyone I fucking know, you’re the most brainwashed, all of a fucking sudden—and that’s saying something, because I know Dean. And I don’t think anybody’s ever wanted to make it as badly as Dean does.

“Oh.” Ramsey looked suddenly deflated. Like Brody had unexpectedly pricked him in a soft, undefended spot, and all his anger just whooshed out. “I’m being an asshole, aren’t I?”

“Kinda, yeah. And me, too, frankly. We’re both being . . .well, assholes .”

Ramsey grinned, and it was only a shadow of his former carefree grin, but even the shadow was enough. Was better than the on-purpose blankness of before.

And maybe that was all the carefree that Ramsey had anymore. While Brody had been changing, evolving, Ramsey had been doing it too.

They’d just been doing it in opposite directions.

“Listen, I’m sorry, too,” Ramsey said and reached for him, and a second later, they were hugging tight and hard. “I’m here for you, if you need it. You know that, right?”

“Now I do,” Brody said as he pulled back. He was feeling better than he had in days. Weeks, maybe. Of course, just in time for his parents to roll into town.

Ramsey winced. “Thanks for reminding me I was an asshole.”

“I promise to always be there to remind you of that.”

“Thanks,” Ramsey said, chuckling. “You wanna grab a smoothie or something?”

“Actually . . .” Brody hesitated. “My parents are in town. I think they’re worried about me.”

“They should be,” Ramsey said. It was weird, still, to hear that serious, earnest tone in his voice. Weird, but kinda nice, actually.

“We’re going to dinner, and I roped Dean into going with us,” Brody said, because he didn’t want to touch, they should be worried about you with a freaking ten-foot pole.

“You’re bringing Dean to meet your parents?” Ramsey’s mouth fell open.

“Not like . . .not like that.” Except that Brody wasn’t sure it wasn’t not like that.

Ramsey shot him a look that said he agreed. “You sure about that?”

“No,” Brody admitted. “But he said he’d come, help me play interference a bit, with them.”

“I’d think they’d be thrilled you’re considering doing something with your life and your degree besides playing hockey for a living,” Ramsey said.

“You’d think,” Brody muttered. And he wouldn’t say they weren’t cautiously interested or optimistic, based on the handful of texts they’d exchanged, since he’d asked his dad about medical school—but the truth was, they were brainwashed, too.

He fully expected them to ask something like, but if you just wanted to be a doctor, what was all this for? The early morning practices, the special camps, the one-on-one coaching, the college recruiting?

Brody wasn’t sure. Not anymore.

But if he was going to move forward, he knew he needed to be sure.

As sure as Ramsey was.

“If he’s willing to go, and deal with you and your parents, he must really like you,” Ramsey said.

“I . . .we’re not like that, we’re friends.”

Ramsey shot him a knowing look. “Don’t bullshit yourself, Faulkner. You know he does. And you like him, too.”

“We’re friends,” Brody repeated, even though he could admit to himself—maybe not to Ramsey, or to anyone else, especially Dean, yet—that the term didn’t quite fit. Not anymore.

“Sure,” Ramsey said, and of course now was the time he chose to find that casual, devil-may-care grin, and now was the time he chose to shoot it in Brody’s direction.

Brody rolled his eyes, but it was a palpable hit.

Maybe he wasn’t doing a very good job of lying to himself or a very good job of lying to everyone else.

“But have a good time. Give your mom a hug for me,” Ramsey said.

“They’ll be around for the game tomorrow, so you can give her one yourself,” Brody said.

“Good.” Ramsey smiled. “How ’bout you give Dean a hug for me, then?”

“You’re being an asshole,” Brody retorted.

“Yeah, a little. But it’s fun to tease you about this. I’ve never gotten to before.”

Brody nearly told him it was for a reason. Because he didn’t do this. But whatever he wanted to call this thing with Dean, whatever comfortable, convenient label they were plastering over it, it was happening. Brody couldn’t deny that.

“Yeah,” Brody agreed.

And maybe that wasn’t much, but Ramsey smiled, softer this time, because he clearly knew it was something, too.

“Alright, well, have fun. Don’t let your parents freak Dean out too much.”

“You think they could?” Brody hadn’t worried about that.

“Bro—he’s clearly crazy about you if he’s willing to go to this dinner. But he’s still a human and a clueless guy, because we’re all sort of clueless. Add in that your parents can be a lot, and well . . .all I’m saying is that it could happen.”

“Alright. Yes. I know. Okay.” Brody took a deep breath.

“Don’t worry. It’s all gonna be fine.” Ramsey patted him on the shoulder.

Brody hoped that he was right.

Dean was waiting for him at the apartment, sitting on the couch, wearing what Brody had already figured out were his nicest pair of jeans and a dark green button-up that did unbelievable things for not only his eyes, but his shoulders, his chest, his torso, his . . .

As Brody stood in the doorway, staring at him, he realized that Ramsey was right.

Dean was a friend.

He was more, too.

And he wondered, because he couldn’t help it, if Dean felt the same as he rose, his gaze never leaving Brody.

“You ready to go?” Dean asked, his voice low and rumbling.

“No,” Brody said.

Dean raised a dark eyebrow. “No?”

“I need . . .” Everything was suddenly pushing in on him. This new thing with Dean—untested and unspoken and possibly fleeting, to boot—and the thing with his parents, the pressure they were going to exert on him in the next few hours, even though they wouldn’t mean too.

It helped that his friendship with Ramsey was no longer a jagged hole in his chest but the rest was a lot, too, and he just needed—

But Brody didn’t need to ask. Didn’t even need to say it.

Because Dean knew, and he was already rounding the coffee table and tugging Brody into his arms, hugging him tightly, fiercely.

He’d just hugged Ramsey outside the rink, and that had felt good, undeniably, but this felt great .

How had this happened? It felt like Brody had blinked and woken up and suddenly, he had feelings .

You have a crush on Dean. A big fat freaking crush.

“You’re gonna be fine. They seem like nice enough people.”

“You met them for probably five minutes before,” Brody said into his shoulder.

“Yeah, but they raised you, so they can’t be all bad,” Dean said, pulling back. His green eyes were intent.

“And don’t,” Dean continued, “bring up my mom here, because I know it doesn’t always work out that way.”

“It’s your mom’s loss,” Brody said. He didn’t bring up Dean’s dad, who he knew had been little more than a sperm donor. That they weren’t in Dean’s life was both of their losses.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, brushing him off, but Brody hoped he’d believed him, anyway.

“Can I ask you something?” Brody said, suddenly thinking of what Ramsey had insinuated. When Dean nodded, he plunged ahead. He didn’t want to do this without Dean, but at the same time, he didn’t want to fuck this up. Whatever this was. “Are you worried at all about uh . . .going to dinner with us? Like making things weird between us?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately. “I can’t say I’m comfortable with it. I don’t have a lot of experience with parents. At least parents who parent . But you need someone there, who’s there for just you , that’s clear, and if you want me to be that person, I’m happy to do it.”

Brody noticed he didn’t really answer the question. He should let it go, take the easy win, but instead he found himself wanting to press on it, like a bruise.

“And you don’t think it’s gonna make anything weird?”

“You sayin’ this is like a date? A double date with your parents? Then yeah, that might be weird.”

Brody wanted to ask if it would be weird that it was a date or if it was because it was with his parents, but smartly shut his mouth this time. Maybe because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Okay, yeah.” Brody nodded. He didn’t really know what he was agreeing to, but at least they’d gotten some of the awkwardness out of the way. “We’d better go actually. We’re meeting them, there, at the restaurant.”

It was not that far, and normally Brody might just walk, but it was drizzling, and so he pulled out his keys.

Dean’s eyebrows skidded up. “Oh, we’re gonna take your fancy car, huh?”

“It’s not fancy, it’s just new.”

“Fancy to me,” Dean said, pulling his door open and sliding in. “Nice leather seats, even.”

“Am I fancy to you?” Brody wondered.

Dean’s gaze slipped over his form. And yeah, he’d dressed up a little. His nicest jeans, too, in a dark wash, and his button-up was a deep purple. Helped his summer tan look a little less washed out than it actually was.

“Yeah, but I like you anyway,” Dean said gruffly.

“Reassuring,” Brody teased. But he smiled all the way to the restaurant and even into the front.

The hostess led them back to the table and his parents stood up as they approached.

“Oh, Brody,” his mom said, wasting no time and embracing him immediately. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Mom,” he said, and he turned to where Dean had finished shaking hands with his dad. “And you remember Dean. My roommate.” He and Dean exchanged a little loaded glance. He hadn’t intended to say more, but he added, because he wasn’t sure he could help himself, and , besides, it was true now, “And a friend.”

His mom let go of him and pulled Dean, so much bigger and broader, but still as helpless in the face of her affection, into a hug. Gentle, too, with her, like she was something he could break and didn’t want to.

“I’m happy you could come tonight,” Tish said, directing one of her brightest smiles in Dean’s direction.

“Well,” Dean said, looking surprised by this, “I was happy Brody invited me. Not often we get a nice meal like this one.”

“And you order whatever you want, our treat,” his dad said as they sat down at the square table. Brody’s knee brushed Dean’s under the table, and it felt intimate, even though he was pretty sure it had been accidental.

“Thanks, sir,” Dean said.

Maybe he didn’t meet parents very often—and probably never under these circumstances—but Brody had to say he was doing an exemplary job.

He’d have to give him a real nice thank you, later.

The waitress appeared, took their drink orders. He ordered a Coke. Dean stuck to iced tea. His parents each got a glass of red wine. And then, before Brody could even decide if he wanted the New York strip or the filet, his mom started in on the interrogation.

“What’s this about you asking about medical school prereqs?” she asked, turning to Brody, a worried crease appearing between her brows.

Brody shot his dad a look, who just raised his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t realize it was a secret,” he said.

“It’s not,” Brody said, even though it kind of was. There was a reason he hadn’t felt comfortable asking his advisor.

He was already sick of people saying, but what about hockey? even though it hadn’t happened yet.

But it would.

“I’m just exploring my options,” Brody continued defensively, when nobody said a word.

“Well, of course you can’t play hockey forever,” Tish reasoned.

“What if—” Brody broke off.

And then there was that touch again, against his leg. This time Brody knew Dean’s touch wasn’t accidental, but entirely on purpose.

It was just a single reassuring brush of his fingers against his jean-covered knee, but it gave him the courage to keep going.

“What if I don’t want to play hockey after college?”

Brody had half-expected his parents to come around to the notion fairly easily. After all, they were both doctors. They’d encouraged him to take the biology major, even though most of his teammates thought he was crazy for attempting it.

His mom took a very long sip of wine. “Let me make sure I understand you,” she said softly, but directly, “you want to go to medical school instead of playing pro hockey?”

“Is it your knee? I know Hauser was supposed to be the best, but—”

But Brody didn’t let his dad get the rest of the question out. “It’s not my knee. My knee is fine.” That was the simple answer, at least. The more complicated answer—the answer he wasn’t sure they’d understand, was that his injury last spring had opened doors in his mind that he’d never explored before.

Without hockey, he’d felt himself looming over a black hole of depression. Not wanting to get out of bed. Wanting to let the frustration swallow him whole. He’d had to find something else he really loved that wasn’t hockey, and it had been so easy for that to be school and science because he’d already loved them, and it turned out that love had only needed air and room to grow, to really blossom.

“Then what is it?” Tish asked, clearly mystified.

Dean bumped his knee again, and that was the only warning Brody had before he spoke up. “I think it’s cool that Brody’s exploring his options. He’s such a smart guy. Caring and thoughtful. And he’s lucky, too, that he has options.” Dean didn’t need to say that he didn’t. The subtext was clear enough.

Brody gave his parents credit. They both listened to what Dean said, nodding in understanding, but then Tish turned to him again. “But you love playing hockey.”

“I do, but I think I don’t love it quite enough.” He didn’t love it to the exclusion of everything else. Not anymore. His world had opened, he’d gotten a peek at another future, and he didn’t want to just shut the door on it.

Dean’s hand brushed his knee again, but this time it didn’t move away again. It stayed. A firm, welcome pressure, grounding him. Reminding him.

You want different things than you did, and that’s okay.

“Huh,” Roger said. “Well, if that’s true, then I’m glad you’re talking to us, Brody.”

“I wouldn’t talk to anyone else,” Brody said wryly.

“We support you no matter what,” Tish added.

The waitress arrived back, and they ordered, Brody not even paying attention to what he picked out. He was too edgy, even with Dean’s hand on his knee.

“Well, about med school.” Roger sighed, and Brody had a feeling this wasn’t good news. “You’re probably about a year behind on the prereqs. You’d need to take another year of school, at least. Some additional classes.”

That jived with the rudimentary research Brody had done on his own, late at night when he was feeling wild and free, like he could do anything and it wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“Okay,” Brody said, nodding.

“Or, possibly some kind of gap year. Taking a few classes to supplement your application. Studying for the entrance exams.” His dad shot him an apologetic look. “There’s no question if you’re smart enough, Brody, or if we think you’d be a good doctor or not. It’s just surprising. Feels like this is coming out of left field.”

“Probably because I’ve been afraid to bring it up,” Brody admitted.

“And that takes guts. To buck what everyone assumes you’re gonna do,” Dean said, those green eyes steady and supportive as they gazed at him.

“I’d ask if you’d ever considered that,” Tish said to Dean, “but I have a feeling you haven’t.”

“Next year, I’ll be drafted into the NFL and if God’s willing, I’ll have a nice long career before I’ve got to figure out what else I’m doing,” Dean said.

“I saw that fumble return you had against USC,” Roger said, with clear admiration in his expression, “so it doesn’t feel like much of a prayer, and more of a certainty.”

“No certainties, but I feel good about my chances.”

“Dean’s the most determined person I’ve ever met,” Brody said.

“Sounds like it was a good thing that Ramsey bailed on living with you.”

“Actually,” Brody said, smiling, “I think Ramsey was playing matchmaker.”

Tish’s wine glass, halfway to her lips, froze.

“Uh, roommate matchmaker,” Brody clarified.

But the knowing look in his mom’s eyes was hard to miss.

She’d guessed. Maybe even before tonight.

Well, Brody was beginning to think they weren’t all that subtle, actually. He definitely wasn’t.

“I’ll make sure to tell him I’m thankful for his intervention tomorrow night,” Tish said firmly.

“How’s he feel about his chances after graduation?” Roger asked.

And thankfully, his own interrogation was over. At least for now. There was no way they wouldn’t discuss this again, but he’d made his feelings clear, and his parents had at least appeared to accept them.

“Honestly, I’ve never seen Ramsey work so damn hard,” Brody admitted.

“Good for him,” Tish said.

“He’s really improved since that draft spot where the Oilers took him, a few years back.”

“Yeah, I know he’s pushing to make it right onto a roster, after dev camp and then the regular preseason camp,” Brody said. “And Coach B is good for him, that way. He’s pushing all of us hard.”

His mom shot him a look, and Brody didn’t need her to say it out loud for him to understand it. Even you?

“Even me, Mom,” Brody added, rolling his eyes. “You can say shit out loud, you know?”

“Language, Brody,” Tish said sternly, but she was smiling. “I’m sorry, this is just such an adjustment for me. The way I think of you.”

“He’s growing up,” Roger said, glancing over at his wife. “And for the record, I think that’s a very good thing.”

“I do too,” Tish agreed, then she sighed. “It’s just . . .different. That’s all.”

“It’s only less weird to me because it’s been on my mind for awhile,” Brody admitted.

“Awhile?” his dad questioned.

“Some this summer, but I thought when I got back, it would be different. The same, I guess, as it always was. At first, it was easy to tell myself I was uneasy about my knee, but I know now that it’s not just that.”

“As long as you’re not forcing yourself to do something you don’t want,” Tish said firmly. “If you’re worrying about not making it—”

“I’m not,” Brody said, cutting that thought off hard and fast. “It’s not that I hate playing hockey now or that I don’t think I’m good enough. It’s just not what I think I want to do for the rest of my life.”

“Alright,” Tish said, smiling.

Dean’s fingers tightened on his knee, and even though he didn’t say anything, Brody had a feeling he knew what he was thinking.

You got this. You did it, baby.

"Well, I’m really fucking glad that’s over,” Brody said, as the door shut behind his parents.

After dinner, his mom had not very subtly insisted on coming by to see the apartment, by claiming she had a load of stuff in the car for him.

They’d stayed for at least ten minutes longer than Brody wanted, chatting on the couch about his classes, about the game tomorrow night, even about Dean’s game this weekend.

“It wasn’t so bad. I got a free steak out of it,” Dean said, leaning back on the couch, stretching his long legs out to their full length. “Besides, your parents are nice. Normal, even.”

“What even is normal?” Brody wondered.

What he really wanted to ask was how long his parents had to be gone for him to lean over and kiss Dean.

“Good question.” Dean grinned at him. “You got any others?”

“A suggestion,” Brody said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “My bedroom, now?” he asked.

Brody laughed. “Okay, that mind reading was sort of freaky.”

“Freaky and hot, I hope?”

“Add it to the list,” Brody said and stood, reaching out for Dean’s hand, and he took it, squeezing it.

“If I didn’t say it, you did good,” Dean said, low and earnest as Brody paused in the doorway of Dean’s room.

He’d suggested his room, but he’d only been in here a handful of times. It was neat, not surprisingly, and the bed was covered in a blue comforter.

“Thanks,” Brody said.

“I know it wasn’t easy.”

“You didn’t say it, but I felt it anyway.” But before he could say more, Dean cupped his cheeks and tilted him up for a kiss.

It was sweeter, gentler. Less fiery than he’d expected.

It was the kiss version of that touch on his knee.

But they couldn’t kiss, not when it felt as good as it did, and not have passion flame between them, hot and undeniable.

Brody groaned into his mouth as Dean captured it, their bodies stumbling back towards the bed.

“I know I didn’t say this, but you’re goddamn hot,” Dean growled as his fingers made quick work of Brody’s shirt, tossing it on the floor, those big, calloused hands pushing him down on the bed.

“Thought I was pretty,” Brody teased, gazing up at him. There was nothing like the way Dean’s gaze fired when he pushed him.

“Hot, pretty, all I know is I can’t look away from you,” Dean said, and the confession sounded wrenched out of him. He leaned in, ghosting a hand over his cock, hard in his jeans.

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” Brody said, arching into his touch. “You gonna make me feel good, baby?”

“Gonna do even better than that.” Dean pulled Brody’s jeans off, then his underwear, sliding them slowly down his legs, straightening as that intense gaze took in every single inch of his bare skin.

Dean was still dressed, and that was another turn-on Brody hadn’t considered before, but apparently worked for him anyway.

Also that look in his eyes . . .Brody’s cock twitched.

“Turn over,” Dean said.

“No please ?” Brody asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Trust me, you’re gonna be the one begging me before this is over,” Dean said gruffly. “Turn over.”

Brody wanted to keep arguing, keep teasing, but that look promised so much pleasure that it was hard to resist Dean’s order any longer.

He turned over, stretching out against the bed, pushing his cock against the soft roughness of the comforter, reveling in the pressure of it.

“None of that,” Dean said and smacked him lightly on the ass.

They both froze.

“Is that . . .is that another one of those things?” Brody wondered, even though he already knew it was.

Things that shouldn’t have been hot, but were.

Maybe at the top of that whole fucking list.

“Yeah,” Dean said, but his next touch was softer as his rough fingers traced the lines of Brody’s back, down lower. “You gonna be good for me, pretty boy, let me do the things I want to you?”

Brody’s back arched, involuntarily. He wanted more. He wanted this endless arousal inside him to spike and then explode.

If he’d ever thought sex could feel like this . . .

But it didn’t. Not with anyone else. Only with Dean.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Dean said, smugly.

Then his lips were replacing his fingers, and they were unexpectedly soft, reverent, the scratch of his stubble lighting up every one of Brody’s nerves as Dean made his way down his back.

“You’ve got the prettiest fucking back I’ve ever seen. So gorgeous,” Dean murmured into his skin.

Brody, whose mind was already half-dead with lust, realized then what Dean was doing. Just as he’d promised.

Next time, I wanna lay you out, on your stomach. You got such a pretty back, pretty boy, and lick all the way up and down it, and then . . .lick you lower. Get you nice and wet for my fingers. Feel you come around them, just from them inside of you, and you humping against the bed because you can’t help it any longer.

Brody moaned, because he couldn’t hold it back any longer. He already wanted it so bad he couldn’t imagine Dean working him up even harder, but then maybe he could, as Dean’s mouth dipped lower.

“You want this?” Dean asked, spreading his cheeks.

Brody had never heard him sound like that before. Voice rough and full of worship, full of awe.

It felt so real, so right Brody’s heart squeezed and his cock twitched.

“Yeah,” Brody said. Moaned against the fabric as he felt Dean’s tentative brush of a wet fingertip against his hole. He’d really liked it the last time Dean had done this.

“You said this was an advanced maneuver,” Dean murmured into his skin. “If I do something you don’t like, you gotta say.”

Brody gasped as he slid that finger in, next to something warmer, wetter. “Fuck, fuck, yes .” His skin felt too tight, too small, as Dean kept gently fingering him. Kept licking him, right there, his tongue soft and rough, the pressure too perfect to stand.

He was barely holding himself back from rubbing against the mattress and exploding, but Dean had asked him if he was gonna be good, if he wanted this. And he’d said yes, to both.

So he’d trust Dean to give it to him, when he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“This is definitely on the list,” Dean said, and Brody could hear the desperation in his voice. It was all he was hanging on to as a second finger slipped in. They crooked, big and inescapable inside him, and Dean rubbed against something that lit him up. Brody cried out.

“That’s it,” Dean soothed, his other hand swiping up and down his back in reassuring strokes. “You can take it, pretty boy. Yeah, you can. Just like that.”

“I . . .I can’t . . .” Brody groaned. “I’m so fucking close. You keep doing that and I’m gonna—”

“Exactly,” Dean said. And he thrust not necessarily harder, but more insistently, faster and better, right against that spot, over and over, until Brody was hanging on to control by his fingertips, and they were slipping.

“You wanna come?” Dean asked.

Brody half-laughed, half-sobbed. “Yes.”

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this, so goddamn pretty.”

“I gotta . . .” Brody panted. He couldn’t fuck against the mattress. But he could against Dean’s fingers, so he did, pushing back, until Dean was groaning too.

“Touch yourself,” Dean finally murmured, “I’m touching myself.”

Brody craned his neck, right before he put a hand on his aching cock and saw that Dean was telling the truth. He’d opened his jeans, shoved them around his knees, and had his hand, big and rough, around his own cock, stroking it hard, face twisted at the pleasure, as Brody fucked his fingers.

Brody froze then exploded, barely getting a hand around himself before he was clenching hard in orgasm.

“Shit, shit .” Brody heard Dean’s exclamation, feeling hot stripes of come falling over his back.

For a second, Brody just floated along in inescapable pleasure.

Heard Dean murmur, as he leaned over him, “Don’t move, I’m gonna clean you up.”

Then there was a damp cloth, wiping off his back.

Dean turned him over and he wiped his front, and they both looked down at the wet patch on Dean’s comforter.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Dean said.

“Okay, I won’t,” Brody said. He patted the bed next to him. “We can work around the wet spot.” He nearly suggested they move over to his bed. And spend the night there, too.

They hadn’t done that yet—spend the night together.

Dean or Brody had always retreated to their own bed, after their experimenting.

But Brody didn’t want to leave. Even if they had to work around the wet spot.

He wanted to lie here, forever, with Dean gazing at him like he wasn’t wrong, wasn’t losing his mind, like he was perfect and shiny and amazing.

Like he really was that pretty boy Dean liked to call him.