It's ungodly, bowels-of-Hell hot in Alliance, Nebraska. Nothing but slightly scorched corn as far as the eye can see. The windows are wide open and Roadhouse Blues is blasting from the Impala's speakers.

Dean has one hand on the gear shift, when he's not hitching his Zeppelin shirt up, exposing his abs to the breeze.

Sam is in agony-but it's a good kind of agony. The hair at the nape of his neck's soaked and he can only hide his hard-on for so long before Dean gets a clue. A warm chuckle greets him, the hand finds his thigh.