"If you know what the hell's good for you," Dean said, "you'll get your hands off her right now."
That was half an hour ago. Now Dean's got the guy bent over the hood of the Impala, doing penance for touching Dean's baby without permission. They're both still mostly dressed, but he can see the crazy tats the guy's got, and even though Sam's the expert on this shit, Dean knows enough to know that you don't get work like that without a damn good reason. But whatever. He doesn't care if Satan or God or Baal or Vishnu is after this guy; what he wants is to fuck him so hard that all that the only things coming out of that slick mouth are moans and whimpers. "Yeah, like that," the guy says, and Dean answers by pulling out, slapping him across his pale, perfect ass. He's not in charge here—or, at least, he doesn't need to think that he is. The guy arches back into it—whaddya know—and so Dean does it again, and again, until the guy's ass is pink and handprinted. He's still verbal, though (just like Sam, and Dean pushes that thought out of his head, because he does not need that right now, Sam left and Dean doesn't miss him, doesn't need him, doesn't think about him, especially not right now), and that means Dean's not doing his job right. He pushes the guy's legs farther apart, thrusts in again, and, God, he's burning up inside, hotter than the Impala's engine after a long drive on a scorching day. "Yeah, fuck, that's the way to give it to me," the guy gasps, and Dean just fucks him harder, watches the guy jerk himself off until they both come, hard and shuddering, and if Dean bites the guy's shoulder to muffle a name he might have said, that's no one's business but his own.