”You hunt me so, for that is your duty, yet I am no monster, just the yearning echo of a life I cannot claim, but I plead guilty to my sin, of which I can’t control, so I’ll let your blade of fate, condom me back home.”

Poems - a shit ton of them - hoarded In piles, scattered around In unorthodox fashion, a mess of ancient parchment and scroll. A demon with a knack for writing poetry, cryptic at that - Dean would’ve never guessed. He chuckled, chalking the ground with a devil’s trap. This hunt soon over, waiting on his demonic prize to come home - the monster he sought out to slaughter.

His patience wearing thin, so he kept himself distracted, glossing over the poem again and again. ‘I am no monster.’ ‘I’ll let your blade of fate, condom me back home.’ A demon with a victim complex, however a need for punishment, It interested Dean Immensely. Majority of the poems had a key theme of punishment.