Dean knew the rules. He wasn't supposed to attract attention to himself, and for plenty of reasons. He knew that.

But in eleventh grade english class, he was not gonna let Mr. Terry have the upper hand. No, sir.

The guy was a dick. Everyone hated his ass because he obviously played favorites and refused to give anyone else a grade higher than a B+.

Well, Dean was going to have to make the dude give him an A.

It was a poetry unit. Dean's blue folder that lived in the bottom of his duffle bag was stuffed full of papers written on by his own hand, covered in different types of poems, although most of them were free verse, as it was his favorite type.

Luckily for Dean, they could write any kind of poem for the class. He grinned wickedly from the back of the classroom as he began to think which one he'd select, or if he'd write a new one.

When the bell rung, he made his way down the hall and knew that he would do all it took to come out on top.


"Winchester," I say,

"Like the gun." It's dangerous

And lethal like me.

-O-o-O-

I slice and I dice,

Monsters around me shudder.

But I don't ever stop.

-O-o-O-

This is the life that

I've been running away from.

I'll never get out.

-O-o-O-

There's always someone

That needs saving; I'm the one

Who has to step up.

-O-o-O-

Nobody will die

On my watch, except me. Wait!

I'm dead already.

-O-o-O-

I'm not living. This

Life is comprised of horror.

The hands that shoot, shake.

-O-o-O-

I don't feel. How did

This happen? I parallel

The monsters I kill.

-O-o-O-

I wanted out. I'm

Already dead. When the gun

Shoots, I will be free.


It was called "Saving People, Hunting Things."

Dean got an A.


Dad came home a week later, and they left. But Dean gifted Mr. Terry a note on his desk on the last day of school he attended there.


Why, hello there, Mister Terry

I'll say that I am quite merry

I'm away from your ass

And your shitty ass class

No more verbal strike or parry.

- Dean Winchester


He laughed for at least five minutes while Sammy looked at him weird, but he didn't care. He found it quite ironic that he dissed his English teacher in limerick format, and that poem was pure gold.

It was one of the few poems he'd written that made him laugh, but that was another story altogether.