Dean drove down the highway; the windows of the Impala rolled down on yet another sticky, humid afternoon. The radio blared Joan Jett and The Blackhearts, song opening with a theatrical guitar riff that Dean nodded along to. He had no idea Joan Jett was so awesome. He knew the song, a popular remake of The Stooges. But, shit – he'd forgotten how good the lyrics were.
"So messed up I want you here,
In my room I want you here,
Now we're gonna be face-to-face,
And I'll lay right down in my favorite place,
And now I wanna be your dog."
His mind started to wander to the collar on the bedside table at the motel, how Sam would put it on him and leash him up like a bitch. Fuck, he might even need to pull over at this rate. Sweat glistened on his throat, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he licked his dry lips. His eyes slowly dropped down to his jeans, where – yep, sure enough a bulge was forming. He swerved the car over to the side of the busy highway and snapped his phone out, dialling Sam's number.
"Dean?" Sam answered, questioningly.
"Sam.." Dean panted.
"Dean? What is it? What's wrong?" he shot back, voice panic-stricken.
"I want you Sam." Dean told him, voice husky and dry.
"I'm in the library, Dean." Sam hissed under his breath. "Call back later."
"No, Sam. I need you." He urged.
"I don't have time-" Sam began.
"I've just been thinkin' 'bout that collar round my neck, Sam."
The other line was silent.
"Choking me while you fuck me."
Silence.
A slow smile triumphantly crept over Dean's face. He knew he'd won.
"Get back to the motel. Half an hour." Sam snapped, voice tight and sharp.
"See ya in thirty, big boy." Dean snickered, ending the phone call.
He could imagine Sam's mouth a straight line as he placed his book back on the shelf and made his way back to the motel in a hurry. He smirked to himself, carrying on down the highway to turn off at the next junction.