Dean grunted as his already sore back met none-to-gently with the unyielding motel room wall. He was vaguely aware that he wasn't at the same motel where he and Sam were holed up, but beyond that the constant onslaught of sensation swamped rational thought. He wasn't even sure exactly how they'd come to be where they were.
He opened his eyes to half mast when he felt Ginger tug forcefully at his gray t-shirt. The soft material was up over his head and gone in a flash. Despite the relative coolness of the room, Dean could feel rivulets of sweat trail down his chest and back, slipping beneath the belted top edge of his jeans before soaking into the waistband of his boxer briefs. His eyes drifted shut again, and he thumped the back of his head to the wall, when the tip of her tongue darted out and licked away a droplet that was racing for his belly button. Her tongue continued to map small rivers without pause.
Ginger's hands came to rest in the small of his back, fingers almost—but not quite—tucked inside his briefs. The tingling sensation her hands generated everywhere they touched created a certain lethargy. Dean was strangely content to let her take charge. In fact, all his energy was directed to breathing in and out and feeling her every touch, her every breath, her every move. Instinctively, he knew something was very wrong with the situation he found himself in. Yet, when Ginger drew him toward the bed, Dean went willingly and, at her imperative urging, stretched out on his back. Her questing fingers immediately unbuttoned his jeans and eased down the zipper, its rasp sounding loud in the quiet room. He hissed has the rough denim slid past his hips and down his legs, abrading overheated and oversensitive flesh.
Dean grunted as her lips and hands became more aggressive. His well-sculpted chest and stomach muscles first clenched, and then quivered, beneath her assault. With each stroke of her diligent hands, his skin became more sensitized, his muscles more taut. All consuming pleasure began to border on outright pain. Some part of him wanted to call a halt to this, but Dean couldn't seem to move his limbs and the power to speak had deserted him. He seemed to be reduced to making low guttural sounds.
When Ginger finally straddled him, Dean felt the world rock and tilt. His breath was nothing more than shallow gasps. His hips matched hers move for move. It wasn't long before the intense pleasure-pain pooled in his middle and passed the point of no return.
Intense white light blasted behind his eyelids and careened through his skull. A soft cry wrenched past his lips. Sunk in the storm-tossed depths of ecstasy, he never heard her laugh nor did he feel her hands wrap around his throat.
All cognizance blinked out and darkness smothered him.