The Patron Saint of Anonymous Smut struck my inbox again. BLESS.

Dean chuckles a brutally amused sound. His hands are cuffed to the table, and his eyes roll slightly in spasms of pleasure. This plan was dangerous, honestly. He’d known that. Sammy wouldn’t let him do this. Dad? Dad would shoot me in at least the knee for entertaining this plan. Of course, wasn’t like either of them understood. The vamps took people from ‘Chain of Command’, a heavy duty BDSM club in a the loft of the Chicago apartment complex. So, Dean starts hitting the club, right? Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? Yeah. Yeah, but let’s not tell Dad. This guy was a vamp, though. Dean could just tell, could just see him watching my pulse. Dean wonders what it’d be like to be drained. Empty. Broken, dead body. He’s been wondering that a lot since Sammy left, and Dean’s whoring around got that much more important to keep up, and his hunts got reckless. Now, Dean’s lockpick sits, taped to the inside of his thigh, and dammit if it isn’t completely out of reach. The vamp who hired him, the creepy-ass fanged freak who looks just like your average businessman (if they wore Nosferatu cloaks, my job’d be pretty fucking easy). This one now is tugging his hair back, in the dark room, just exposing his neck, pulling him back onto the rope tight and painful between his legs and around his throat.

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