Sex and Violence
Dean could see that he and his father dript apart, and he couldn't be happier. It made things easier for Dean to remember that there was suppose to be three, instead of two. In particular, is made things easier for Dean's 'hobby'. So far he had one solo hunt, but Dean was sure they'd be more in the very far future. Even so, the reality of being around each other didn't mean they were anywhere close to each other—not anymore, anyways. He made sure he knew where his dad was going, which bar, before heading to one himself.
Four months and he's made two kills. The first time was the night Sammy left. He smashed a guy's face in while in a desperate drunken wallow—it was an accident, it wasn't planned. Dean had kept a low profile. His dad thought it was because of Sam. There was a truth to it really; it was partially because of Sam.
Once Dean was sure the police weren't after him, distancing from them time and states away, the tension eased from his shoulders. Dean could immerse himself with the notion that the emptiness inside him had been filled, ignoring the tickles of the other one. It was freedom.
His second kill was a girl that invited him to her home one month ago—three months after Sam's leaving. The hunts beforehand were able to tide the void until he was finally alone with his emptiness, in the quaint apartment of a single woman looking for some form of comfort in Dean. His father was in some bar near their motel, and Dean wanted to keep himself far away from the man as possible. The hunt that night brought out every reprimanding observation his father could bring out on the table. His dad had kept silent after Sam left, and it had to come out some way. So Dean ventured to the other side of the town. Dean's father wasn't the only one that needed to let something lose.
She was this bottle blonde, long legs, and skinny girl desperately vying for his attention. Dean thought he could probably wrap one hand nicely around her throat. She kind of reminded him of this stray dog he had killed—hell, any stray animal. His first kill was a stray as well; Dean was must moving up the food chain. He could see the remnants of objects that use to have a place inside this apartment. There were strange clean spots on dusty shelves, and empty spots that look as though it should be filled with some miscellaneous objects. In other words, she was an easy pick-up. The most important thing was when Dean looked at her: the emptiness would thrum in his body, his heart would speed up, and he'd take deeper breathes as though to consume the oncoming event.
Killing the bottle blonde wasn't an accident, yet it sure wasn't well planned. Dean had left with her from a bar for one thing. It was stupid, but the emptiness was singing its tune so loudly inside him…it's not easy ignoring natural urges. There were probably twenty-five to thirty people there, so how many witnesses could there have been there to see Dean making out with this girl in the dark corner. Maybe some guy saw his large smile when the girl invites him back to her apartment—a simple signal that he was 'getting lucky.' Simple matter was that Dean was getting lucky in everyway.
Her legs were wrapped around his waist when Dean wrapped one hand around that throat. He could feel the girl tense when he began to squeeze. When he pulled the knife he was carrying with him. She couldn't scream when the knife was almost seemingly gliding an inch past the first layer of sweating flesh. All Dean could hear was the gasping sounds of breath. A cut across below her breast, above her navel: familiar in some way that Dean couldn't pin point, yet not---
Dean searched for the word in his head until her finally came up with one word that felt right. Complete. They way he presses the knife into her wasn't complete. After everything was done, reaching that pinnacle state of ecstasy Dean was far from being finished. But the first thing he needed to do before pondering upon it more was to do a simple salt-and-burn. Dean's dealt enough with the supernatural during his day job, so he doesn't need a bottle blonde ghost gunning for him.
Dean was well aware that people didn't usually mean this, when they said they prefer blondes. The sex didn't matter; Men and women invaded his thoughts as Dean imagines the deed (the warmth and sounds).
Just the thought of it eased him.