Roxanne is humming. Not the I-kind-of-know-the-words-to-a-song kind of humming, not the I-am-happy-and-content kind of humming, but the jaw-clenched-can't-make-any-other-sound kind of humming. Dean takes this as a good sign that orgasm number three was thoroughly enjoyed. Good damn thing, too, he thinks, since he may not last long enough to get her to four.
He's pulls her back from her hands and knees until they are both upright and she rests in his lap. Well, she isn't exactly resting. No rest for the wicked, he'd heard somewhere before, and she is definitely wicked. She's spent, worn out, tired as fuck, but Dean needs her to keep taking it for just a few more minutes. He allows her to lean back into his chest, her legs not quite able to keep her upright. All she has to do is not say stop. Dean has both arms wrapped around her, one hand on a breast, one loose around her throat, as he powers into her.
So close to the release he went searching for those hours ago. So close to the blinding jolt of uncontrolled pleasure he needs so badly. In that moment there is no thought, no memory, only the freeing obliteration of all sense of time and space and emotion. The girl could be anyone or no one; in that moment it doesn't matter one damn who she is. When he comes, it's just him, it's just about . . . him. His past counts for shit, his future counts for shit. His mission, his destiny, his crimes and heroics, none of it matters. It's all he wants right now, for none of it to matter.
A tightening of his sweaty grip, an arch of her back, a tug on his hair, one last stroke, and Dean is there. He thinks he cries out, he knows his eyes are closed, he feels his hold become stronger, but he stops caring before he can even worry if he's hurting her. Powerful waves of relief pass through him, over him; it's just so damn good. He stops breathing, just trying to prolong the feeling, moves once more within her to keep it going. He feels loose, he feels good. He feels. He feels.
Feeling Roxanne untangle herself from his arms, Dean lets her go and stretches out on his stomach beside her. They are both sweaty and panting, and it's awesome. She gets up and walks naked out of the room, only to return with two beers. Sitting back on the bed, she hands one to him, and they clink bottles as he sits up. No words, no cuddling, no needy touches, Dean thinks this is exactly what he was looking for, and smiles. But when she tells him he is welcome to shower before he leaves, he knows it isn't. He knows what he's missing, he remembers the life he once had though that life cannot remember him. And he is grateful that for that one fucking orgasmic moment with this girl, he was free from those memories.
He showers, he dresses, he kisses her when he walks out the door, and leaves her behind with a smile on her face. She is already forgotten. He leaves them all behind, forgotten in all but the stories he likes to tell Sam just to see him uncomfortable, forgotten in all but the mental pictures he uses when he has only himelf for relief. Shoved into the crowded mind that never shuts up, never leaves him alone, never allows his indifference to linger.
Damn, he needs a drink.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please leave a review. I am a review whore - pay me! LOL