Kieran

As his eyes drifted onto the man he'd set as his destination, Dean could feel his heart leap, like a giddy lover finally reuniting with the one. His footsteps grew heavier, his weight slamming down through his legs at an increasing rate. This needed to be done, and he was more than glad to oblige with his twisted and outright brutal urges. In a situation like this, with a man like that, he deemed it fitting.

There was no plan to be quiet with his entrance, which explained how quickly the man was able to notice his figure. His approach only became faster as he felt eyes gaze upon his visage, and he relished in the fear that came as that same gaze travelled down to his blunt instrument. His tool for destruction, his vessel of rage, his words.

The other quickly raised up his hands to his chest, feeling Dean's rage from the 20 or so yards away he stood from the man. That gap between the two was closed in a matter of seconds, Deans strides growing longer as he craved to make the act he was about commit come even closer. He was mere inches away from the target when he finally made his move, his empty hand shooting outwards and latching onto the others shirt, taking a fistful of the cotton material as his head leaned back, before careening forwards once more, this time, into his nose.

His skull left the man's nose crumpled underneath the force of it, and his mind dazed. Dean shoved him backwards, making him stumble before taking another shot. Once more, his free hand clenched into a fist and clashed into his face with a left hook. His legs moved, trying desperately to catch his body, to no avail. Gravity turned into his greatest enemy as his weight was brought down onto the pavement, leaving him on his back as nothing more but an easy target.

If it were anyone else, Dean would've let them get back up, or even walked away. This wasn't anyone else, however. This was someone who deserved every piece of torment he would inflict upon their body, and he planned to make sure that this would be an event neither his mind, nor his body, would ever forget.

Dean raised up his leg and stomped down onto the incapacitated man's chest, a loud wheeze and cough being drawn from him as all air left his lungs. Then, Dean repeated the action. Once, then twice, then three times, and he only stopped when his foot began to ache. That ache only served to make him angrier, the pain wiring his mind to strike harder with whatever he used next. Dean knew exactly what he wanted to do.

He raised his baseball bat up, and swung down. The barrel of it proved to still hold its power, as long as Dean was the man behind it. It smashed into his chest, and he raised up a hand once more, in a desperate attempt to make whatever was about to come next stop in its tracks. All that did for him was give Dean a smaller target, using it to pinpoint his rage and kick it down, his boot pressing down on his wrist and keeping it firmly pinned to the ground.

He tried to scream out something plea, but all that came out was a wail of torment as Dean swiftly crushed his hand with his other boot. It came crashing down upon it again and again, just like he'd done to his torso. The difference now was that he had sight on what he was doing to his bones, and what he was doing was mangling them. Nearly every bone in his hand grew more unrecognizable with the flesh around it with each stomp on it, his fingers and knuckles twisted into a mess of skeleton and skin.

As lovely as his screams were, and as much as he appreciated breaking apart someone miniscule piece by miniscule piece, Dean knew he had much bigger ideas he would run along with. Those ideas swirled around in his head like dreams, ones that he'd fulfill in moments. His jaw. His teeth. They were all still in their rightful places in that stupid fucking skull of his, no, that wouldn't do.

Dean let his right leg lean back as his left moved back to pushing down on the man's chest, which likely had something shattered in it, no definite answers there though, not for Dean at least. He pressed the barrel of the bat against the man's jaw, slowly inching it away to the opposite side, before moving it back. Preparing his swing, he placed his other hand upon the bats handle. He felt almost like a shitty golf player, an extremely violent and somewhat criminal golf player, at least.

Although he didn't notice it, a smile grew across his lips as he examined the man's features carefully. Sweat beaded down his forehead, tears ran gently along his cheeks, and his eyes were wide with a horrified expression. One that was met with Dean's stare, piercing and cold. All possible fucks he could've ever given were launched to another person when he heard of what he'd done, and in their place stood a twisting feeling of fury.

That fury brought along wrath, wrath that came in the form of Dean finally swinging the bat, and listening to the subsequent cracking of the mans jaw. Immediately, another scream erupted from his throat, desperate for help that would never amount to anything, even if it did come. And just like he'd done before, he repeated the action, although with a little more difficulty as the man squirmed harder underneath. In response, Dean pressed down harder on his chest, pushing more of his weight onto his foot which seemed to make the man jolt and stay in place for a second. That second being used to break his jaw entirely, he could tell by the way it now dangled from his skull.

His teeth, while loosened, were still in his fucking face. Not for long, as he adjusted the bat to now be pressed into the man's mouth, running along his teeth before shooting down. He could hear them being knocked out, and the subsequent choking on them as they travelled down his throat. For just a moment, Dean paused, bringing the bat back ever so slightly. Not because he cared, but to make sure he didn't choke to death on his own goddamn teeth, instead allowing him to sit up slightly and spit them out. He counted three front teeth, and a molar. Enough to warrant some kind of replacement, and enough to satiate his urges... Not entirely, just the ones that involved breaking his teeth.

The man was still leaning up, just a bit, and Dean utilized that. Taking the one thing that could've possibly saved him, and instead breaking him further with it. He raised the bat to the side and swung it, the barrel cracking with a loud snap along the mans temple, which knocked him back down to the ground. This time, his head resting on the side opposite to which it'd been hit. His eyelids were still wide, but he could tell the lack of consciousness behind them. He'd learned the look, the dead, yet still terrified, look. If he kept beating on his head like this, it would be a sure way to give him brain damage... Then there was the chance he wouldn't even be coherent enough to feel and understand just what Dean had done, and that was something he couldn't allow.

He stepped back completely, and looked down... His lower half was fair game, just like the rest of him. Dean started with a stomp down to his crotch, even if he couldn't feel it at the moment, he'd recognize the mind altering pain the moment there was proper thought in his head. That same sentiment would go for his legs, Dean hadn't properly shattered someone's legs with a bat before, but... Well, there was a first for everything, right?

With a deep breath, Dean raised his arms, and his weapon, up high, and began to swing down. Repeated and brutal hits, running up and down each leg, with no real order or much of any thought. Besides, obviously, intending to break bones. The ankles were the first to break, and it wasn't long after those went that the man finally began to start realizing just what was happening, and the screams that followed. It was hard to get up and retaliate as the force of each hit only grew, and he could feel bits and pieces in his legs be destroyed through the blunt force.

His kneecaps felt as though they'd been pushed deeper into his legs, his ankles were out of place, and everything else was pure fire, the burning sensation mixed in with the rest of his body aching and begging for mercy being enough to him to whimper and cry out in agony. Although his legs weren't visibly mangled, he could feel the insides well enough to know that he wouldn't be walking away. That was a thought he couldn't yet have though, as everything was drowned out by his own screams and the continued and ruthless beatdown.

An end to the torture only came as fatigue began to creep in, making Dean's limbs feel more like lead as his exhilaration from the whole event died down. His arms whimpered with aches from each movement, his foot hurt from the amount of pressure he'd forced through it, his head hurt a bit just from the screaming, and the previous headbutt. Even when he was on the good end of a one sided beating, he still walked away with pain. There was a saying for something like that, he just couldn't remember what it actually was.

Dean stopped after one final blow, moving targets entirely and going back up to the man's face. It landed against his eye and cheek, making him reach up for it the moment the blunt instrument was taken back to Dean's side, who finally stepped away. Not before taking a deep breath, leaning over and spitting on him, his fluid landing against his battered and broken face. A final sign of disrespect and humiliation, the last thing he wanted to do before finally walking away, leaving a shattered mess of a pathetic bastard behind him.