October 31st, 2005
2:50 AM
The bastard is quick. He grabs your wrist, twists out of your hold like he'd practiced it exactly. In the dark, everything is a shadow against a shadow, but you feel rather than see the attacker's free hand going for your stomach. You jump away, and him back, missing it.
More punches, some you are able to block with your forearms and others with your palms, the rest with simple steps to the side. And just the same, he's dodging yours so cleanly that nothing you're throwing will land. He's taken you forwards and backwards; you've spun him in circles. But not one hit.
So you try a kick, to trip him and pin him, but rather than fall for the trap he finally gets you in the chest. You're locked backwards, prone, yet the shadow doesn't advance, instead bounces on his feet. Like he's waiting for you. A wicked grin comes to your face before you flick back your hair and rush at his legs.
Vaguely you begin thinking of this as some kind of dance, not because he's matching you step-for-step or adding a fancy spin to his dodges - it's because this feels all too familiar. Almost…rehearsed. He grunts from the force behind a push to your shoulders when you get too close. The material of his clothing finds a stray gleam of light and your mind recalls a photograph, of your brother in a similar coat, standing at a gas pump. You swing at his ribs. He blocks.
All at once you realize why this feels like some kind of recital and why this man knows where your punches will hit and where to throw his, but it doesn't come until after he's got you on the floor and you're staring up at the face of a smiling devil.
Eyes green like the spring, steadfast as the ocean. He grins like he's never done a thing wrong in his life.
It's taken this tree weeks to fall, and, just as you'd guessed, it had done so right on top of you.
"Dean?"