Bad Romance.
Face tilted to the moon, he stands in the back yard and waits. It won't be long until the window opens. People follow patterns. He knows the car out front will be gone in a few minutes, so he swallows his impatience. The moon is beautiful enough for the moment.
The back of the house is dark now, and no one can see the yard from the street. The yard is surrounded by tall trees on all sides, which is maybe why she chose it. He flexes his fingers gently and listens. Faint, on the barely-there breeze, a murmur of voices and tinny screech of car tyres. A crescendo of music. Not long to go, then. He imagines her modestly down turned gaze, the guy's poorly hidden disappointment.
He feels warm, suddenly, despite the cold.
The last time they did this, the house was small and neat. The other guy had looked plenty mad when she made him leave and had been gone less than five minutes when she gave him the go ahead. Overcast night, that time. Warmer. Not right. This time, though, everything will be just as he likes. Briefly, he wishes they could do this more often. He knows they can't; shakes it off.
He knows when he sees her this will all be worth it; the itch of waiting all these weeks, the long wait here in the yard, the careful purchase in a town in the next state. The undignified scramble into the house. It's all part of what she wants, so she gets it. He's never been able to say no.
A flicker of shadow behind a curtain catches his eye, and he glides over the damp grass to the side of the house. From here he has a perfect view of the car and of the guy who owns it. He's tall and fair, and Dean feels an abrupt twinge of something like jealousy as her blonde fringe puffs out of her eyes as she reaches up to kiss the guy.
Dean chastises himself. This is all part of it too. Jealousy is pointless. That guy doesn't mean anything to her, regardless of the way she kisses him. It's the way she'll be kissing Dean later, that's what he needs to think about. Not this fair-haired cipher. The moon smiles down benevolently as he returns, noiseless, to his spot in the yard. He hears the car start up and back away from the house. He smiles too.
As if on cue, the light in what must be the kitchen pings on. Customary preliminaries. His mouth dries up.
The window opens.
The light goes off.
He moves. Effortlessly over the grass, onto the porch and up. This gap is tighter than the last one. Not a problem.
He lands softly in a crouch just inside the darkened kitchen. Still smells of whatever she made for dinner. Dappled light and the sound of running water from somewhere upstairs beckons him onwards. That old familiar thrill bubbles its way up from his core, and he flits out of the kitchen and up to her.
He catches her stepping out of the bedroom, still fully clothed. Her hair is perfect, up in a tail, just as he likes it. Make up subtle. She looks altered, tonight. Just different enough to make it interesting.
Her just-pink mouth opens in recognition. Invitation. Thank you, he thinks. Invitation given, he slaps her with the flat of his left hand, then the back. She buckles at the knees but slips past him and heads to the top of the stairs. He finds her hair and pulls sharply. She makes that sound that drives him wild, just wild. He spins her round and punches economically; once in the face, once in the stomach. She goes down.
He laughs. Pauses. These games of hers always surprise him.
She wriggles her way to the door of the bathroom. He lets her do it, follows her at a distance. She makes an attempt to shut the door, whimpering when he nudges it open again with his booted foot. He notices he's tracked mud inside. Mouths an apology.
She stares at him - a reprimand for breaking character, he guesses. So he seizes her by the back of the neck and drags her over to the almost full bathtub. She flails her arms in excitement as he pushes her head beneath the surface. As she splashes him, he finally feels it. He lets go. Lets her come up.
He backs up a fraction and she gasps as he looks down at her. Shuffles backwards as fast as she can. Her hair is plastered to her face and neck. Her breath comes in infinitesimal hitches and he can see the sweat beading on the skin of her chest, just above the slight swell of her chest. God, he loves her when she's like this.
His right hand finds the purchase he made the day before, in the state before this one. Wicked sharp and deliciously cold. He shows it to her. She screams in that way she does; different each time but the same, yeah, always the same.
Dean smiles. This is the part she likes the best. He leans in for a kiss, one that means something whatever she looks like.
It's a shame, he reflects later, that he has to get rid of the knife. The moon beams at him in congratulation as he tosses it into a drain on his way back to his car, three blocks away.
He hopes it won't be too long 'til the next time. He hopes she'll be blonde again. Probably, he thinks.
People follow patterns, after all.
Fin.
A/N. Er. Not sure where this came from! Please comment J