dean had never met a pure bitch his entire life.

not until now. and when he said that heart is the blackest than any soul he had met in hell, any of those demonic sons of a bitches' eyes out there lurkin', it's true. believe it or miss it, he don't care. well, it's better to miss it rather than knowin' you, all-known-bitch-of the century. what a real effing sunshine you are. you just made it all starry shine that he wanted to bash your head off.

hands on that dissected rifle, cleaning each parts only to put it back together again. hand wrapped around the barrel, holding it like an popsicle and strokes up the muzzle with those fingers as your cloth covered thumb traces the rim with your lips curled at the corners— then our eyes met, you tilt your head. he glares. bitch.

we're angry people, stray dogs barkin' and snarlin' on the verge of biting each other's head to shake around until it's off. i mean, why the hell not? we don't blend. we don't belong. don't bond. don't cross. never would. you're like vodka drank straight out of the bottle as a chaser five in the morning. he hates you, indefinitely. hates your hair. hates your coat, your turtleneck, your boots, your taste in music, all about you. he hates it. more so as he watched that bubblegum getting bigger. watched it explode on your face.

you're one of the shit he wanted to wipe off earth, polisher included. but in the end, he needs you. it's eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, spleen to spleen. it's all a game, anyway. a hate game. a tug of war but using our neck to tug, which he would gladly do just to choke you.

he believes in demons and evil, and he thought it's you. and it's bad enough that you're a constantine.

you're his bad news, and he's your karma.

and he's gonna make sure you get a bad one.