Hisoka1021

Destroy This Poem To the person grading this poem To the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a pen Waiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor: Stop it. Don’t Patronize me. I did not slave over this with hammer and anvil Shaping it into a masterpiece. I didn’t paint it onto the ceiling of some church, Going blind from the pain and the stress. I didn’t even turn this in on time. And while I’m writing this in my fifth-period economy class, You can bet I’m not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima. No, I’m concerned with how much water is left in my water bott

It was a common occurrence for Dean Winchester. His brain would go directly from Survive, survive, kill it and survive to the mental checklist of all those he cared for.   Cas was lying somewhere upstairs in excruciating pain for something that little Whore did to him in Enochian. He kinda wished he could gank her again, slower this time.   Leaving Sam with Gideon, Dean raced through the church, finding his angel on the ground, his features screwed up in pain. "Cas! Cas, man, what'd she do to you?"   All he got were a few grunts and something dangerously close to a broken whimper in response, and that set Dean ablaze with anger like