He only ever fucked her from behind.
They would roll together in the soft sheets, kissing, nipping, hands roving, but inevitably her face would be pressed into the pillows, on her hands and knees for him. He could pretend then, that the body he thrust into hungrily was a different body, one with sharper hip bones. When he reached around to pinch and twist her nipples, his chest sliding against her back, he could pretend that instead of supple breasts, he was feeling the flat firmness of his body. The noises she made were wrong. They were good noises, to be sure, but wrong. Higher. Not as gravelly as he wished. When she got on her knees in front of him, he thanked his stars that she kept her eyes closed. Her lips were just as soft, just as tightly wrapped around his cock, but he missed the way that he would stare, his piercing blue eyes never leaving Dean's face. He would thread his fingers through Lisa's thick black hair and moan quietly, stuttering through his orgasm, always surprised that it was no longer the short, constantly-mussed strands. Lying next to her afterwards, both sweaty and spent, Dean pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, smelling the citrusy shampoo she used instead of the faint smell of cotton and the backseat of the Impala.