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There's a warmth that dusts her cheeks and a chill that crawls down her leg as Faye stares down at Dean with a disbelieving expression, one that pierces through a haze. Even the feather-light sensations seem to light her afire, but still she tries to hold herself back, as though the slightest disturbance might pull her out of the dream, call them back to their senses. Even now, there's a part of her that's running, that has no idea what to do with that look in his eyes, even if she manages to return it unconsciously.

She's not sure she wants to know what this is. Whether or not anything will come of it. His lips press hot against her thigh, rough stubble brushing each kiss away, and there are words that threaten to tumble through her lips. Wanting this faster. Harder. To the point where she can't breath. "Dean—"

But his tongue brushes against her again, and this time her groan is lower, caught in her throat before it passes through her lips with a quaver. Somewhere along the line, her hands have dropped, fingers weaving through his hair. She hopes she hasn't tugged too hard, thighs hugging either side of him, chest rising and falling.

"Fuck," she whispers. "Don't make me get all sentimental, Winchester. That's supposed to come after."