Deep red hair, creamy skin, the barest hint of freckles under her make up. Dean almost smiles. The freckles speak softly of innocence, contradicted by everything else about her. He knows his damned freckles are one of the things women find so attractive about him - the hint of long-lost innocence. He's never quite understood that before now.
He asks her name. She tells him it's Roxanne. The urge to ask her if she's put on the red light is nearly overwhelming, but he resists. Too easy. He simply introduces himself, and she looks relieved. He's sure it's because he didn't use that tired line. He wonders what kind of parents give their daughter a name like Roxanne.
Dean decides he wants her, wants her to touch him with light fingers like the breeze on his face. The confidence she exudes as she steps ever closer to him with no hesitation is sexy as hell. She reminds him of Anna, both in looks and attitude. He spares a pleasant thought for the fallen angel and their night in the back of his Impala before the memory of her betrayal rises. Turning his eyes from the beautiful woman now sitting to his right, he schools his thoughts away from angel food cake. He focuses instead on the spicy scent surrounding this very human woman by his side. Spice wrapped in flowers, he thinks of the fragrance; another contradiction. He likes the riddle she's turning out to be.
She can't quite keep up with him, matching every two of his drinks with one of her own. Not bad, he knows, since he drinks professionally these days. Again. Every time he thinks he has it under control, his life becomes too much. Again. The need to make each day bearable is more important than his sobriety. He takes another drink and redirects his thoughts once more to the beauty leaning into him. He tips his empty glass to her and raises his eyebrow, another turn on for the ladies. Suggesting they get a drink someone more private, she leads him out of the bar. He can think of no reason good enough not to go.
He follows her in the Impala, unwilling to leave his baby behind. She, his car, is one of the few constants along the thread of his life. She brings him comfort, and she'll bring him back to Sam when he is finished with the woman in the SUV ahead of him. So callous to think of it like that, but truthful. He is using Roxanne to feel something, anything, that isn't full of overwhelming defeat. She has her own reasons, though he doesn't know what they are. It could just be that she thinks he's hot and wants to get off. Why not? Why can't it be that simple? He shakes that thought away. Nothing is ever that simple.
She has a small house, neat, well-kept, on a quiet street. Dean feels a spark of jealousy when he walks in the door behind her. The place feels so much like a home. He pushes that feeling aside with a grimace he's sure she doesn't notice. He's tried the home thing before and understands that the domesticity of suburbia isn't for him. Not really. Past experience has taught him that "home" has no place in his fucked up life. She moves into him, insistently pulling with a hand on his neck. Tasting the mingled whiskey on their tongues, he no longer cares.