Dean can feel the monster under his skin. An ugly remnant of Hell, it snarls inside his shadowy parts, begs for freedom. It craves for violence, lusts for blood and hungers for dark satisfactions, the likes of which would make most humans weep. Mostly it's a quiet small voice in the back of his head, a low murmur of heady possibilities. Sometimes it throbs. Dean mostly ignores it, denies it's existence, but he knows the truth. All the feeding and fucking and fighting in the world can only soothe the beast so long. The monster is a part of him.