A/N: Hello, I just had a headcannon that Dean wrote, and so I started writing this. I have a couple small installments for it, so stay tuned! Happy reading, and have a lovely rest of your day!

He didn't care.

He didn't, really. It's not like he did anything wrong, right? Or at least, if he did, he couldn't remember it. His thoughts went back over the past class period, but he concluded that his behavior had been oddly good. He'd even turned in the homework for the entire time they'd been here.

But that was because he liked this class, oddly enough. Seventh grade wasn't turning out as sucky as he thought it would.

Anyway, he didn't care at all that Ms. Simmons told him she wanted to talk after class. It didn't matter. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"Dean?" She called, looking up from her desk to where he was standing.

"Yes?" he asked, looking down at her desk, reading the title of a student's essay. Try, Try, Try Again it read.

"Dean, I wanted to talk to you about the latest assignment you turned in."

Nonononono, he thought, please don't say it was horrible please don't say I have to redo it please don't tell me off please-

"And I have to say, I was very pleased with your work." His head shot up, an incredulous look on his face.

"What?" He breathed.

"I wanted to say that you have real potential here in English class, Dean. Your writing style is engaging and I wanted to hear more from you when the assignment was over. I hope you'll continue to turn in work like that to me. I also wanted to say that if you have any extra writing pieces you're working on, I'd be happy to read them over for you. You don't have to write extra! But in case you do, I'm here."

Did you read the right name on your papers? He wanted to ask. Nobody complemented Dean Winchester on his school efforts.

"Th-thanks, Ms. Simmons," he felt like he was floating just outside his body. "I should go, I gotta get my little brother from the elementary school to walk home."

She smiled at him, a kind and genuine smile that made him feel appreciated and valued. "Okay Dean, sounds good. I'll see you tomorrow in class. We're going to start our poetry unit, I hope you're ready!"

The next day, Dean felt almost excited to walk into English class. Since it was the last class of the day, he waited through all the other classes in order to get there, his leg bouncing as he sat in wait.

Nobody was more surprised than himself when he sat down at his desk in Ms. Simmons' classroom five minutes before the bell, with his notebook out and a pencil in his hand.

When the bell rung, Ms. Simmons stood and walked to the board, where she wrote POETRY in large letters.

"Today," she proclaimed, "we're going to learn about poetry. Contrary to popular belief, not all poetry has to rhyme. Some of it doesn't have any structure at all, which is called free verse. And free verse poetry is the first kind we'll look at today. Here's an example." She walked over to the projector and placed it in the middle of the classroom before turning it on.

A not admitting of the wound

By Emily Dickinson

A not admitting of the wound

Until it grew so wide

That all my Life had entered it

And there were troughs beside -

A closing of the simple lid that opened to the sun

Until the tender Carpenter

Perpetual nail it down -

After reading it aloud, Ms. Simmons asked, "Does anyone have any idea what this poem means?"

Death. Dean thought. She's hurt bad but doesn't tell anyone until it kills her and the carpenter is nailing her coffin shut.

The morbid thought entered him without any real difficulty, as he'd thought about much worse things before. He waited as some girl answered the question with a tentative answer that wasn't anything like Dean's and he subtly rolled his eyes under half-closed lids.

He normally would have done it outright, but he still wasn't sure how he felt about doing it with Ms. Simmons right there while in her class.

"Does anyone else have any ideas?" She asked, eyes sweeping over the classroom.

Nobody raised their hand.

"Okay then, I'll choose someone. Dean, have any thoughts?"

He froze for a moment, looking up at her in shock like a parallel to yesterday.

But it didn't hold long before he relaxed into his seat and grinned lazily. "Well, Ms. Simmons, she's talking about death. She's hurt, but she doesn't say anything until it gets so bad that she dies."

The classroom was deathly silent for a whole moment before Ms. Simmons smiled brightly. "That's right, Dean. Very good. Now, I'll show you another example that is from a more recent author." She grabbed the current sheet off the projector and switched it with another one.

She read it aloud too and discussed it with the class again, except staying away from Dean this time. He zoned out for a little until the girl in front of him handed a small stack of papers to him.

"Take one, pass it back," she whispered.

He did as she said and looked that the worksheet that read HAIKUS.

"Alright everyone. In the last ten minutes of class I want you to look at this worksheet to see what a haiku is and how to write one. For homework I want you to write a poem on any subject, whether in free verse or haiku. If you choose haiku, I expect there to be a collection of them, not just one, and your free verse needs to be at least six lines. Okay, happy reading!"

Dean looked over the paper and quickly read it before the bell rung and he went to get Sammy before returning to the motel.

Dean sat at the table, pencil in hand. He glanced behind him again to make sure Sammy was still asleep, which he was. Dean chewed his lip nervously as he stared down at the blank paper before him.

Poetry is for girls! A side of him snarled.

But this is Ms. Simmons' class, and she likes me. I should at least try for that miracle, if no other reason.

Hesitantly, he lowered his pen until it was hovering right above the page. Then, he wrote.

At first it was idle, random words catching his fancy that went on the page, until it wasn't.

Run, Sammy, monsters,

Rough hands and a leather jacket

Broken promises and whispered words

"Take care of Sammy"

I always do

I've tended almost every cut, bruise, and illness

Since he was six months old

And you tell me to take care of him?

It should be the other way around

With how you off and leave us

It's not like I'm more parental than you

Or I know less than you

How precious Sammy is

You told me to

"Take Sammy and run!"

And I did

I've never looked back

Not for monsters, ghosts, or even you

So my priorities are straight

Nothing comes before Sam.

But the hunt is all

That consumes your mind.

Dean looked at the paper in horror. Where did that come from? He wondered. He pushed the poem away before he could reread it and ask if he really felt that way about his own father. He decided to write another one to take his mind off of it.

He kind of liked the rush that came with writing, and a small part of him was relishing the fact that he could express whatever opinion he desired through it.

Coldhearted metal

Guns glint under the sun's rays

We are Winchesters

-O-o-O-

A birth of fire

Still phantoms all of my thoughts

Like a poltergeist

-O-o-O-

Take Sammy and run!

But mom's on the ceiling and

Flames blaze from above

-O-o-O-

That day created

A family with no roots

A life on the road

-O-o-O-

This life isn't right

It's full of falsities but

It's to keep him safe

-O-o-O-

It's been much too long

Since I last saw my father

But Sammy needs food

-O-o-O-

I do what I can

To keep him safe from all this

I try so damn hard

-O-o-O-

My little Sammy

He wasn't supposed to know

Why did I tell him?

-O-o-O-

A humorless laugh

This smile is pasted on

Only to mislead

-O-o-O-

I've taken on all

The roles as parent, father,

And mother to him

-O-o-O-

I hunt the monsters

But who's gonna help when the

Monster's one of us?

Dean looked down at the last haiku, ruminating about what it could mean. Who is the monster? He thought. Then it became another poem on the page before him.

Who is the monster?

Is it the phantom under the child's bed

Or the parent who promised it wasn't real?

When the time comes and the night falls

The child screams

And the parent who said the monster was

Fantasy

Is pulled into the reality

That monsters are real

And the child that was so precious and loved

Is gutted and gone and dead.

Dean realized that his poetry was quite dark, but that was practically a given, seeing what kind of life he lead. He also realized that turning in a super dark poem would probably result in a one-way ticket to the principal's or counselor's office, which was something he definitely didn't want, so he had to write a lighter one to turn in to Ms. Simmons. He sighed before returning his pen to a new piece of paper.

In my life

There are three constants:

Take care of Sammy

Keep on moving

Expect the unexpected

With our demons chasing us

As we chase them in a game

Of cat and mouse

Circuitous, never ending

They are all I have to hold on to

My three constants get me through

When it's hard, I remember them and everything is better

Because even if life goes to hell

My three constants

Stay the same

Well, he didn't say that it was going to be a romance poem. Lighter just meant "slightly less dark." He'd just say it was metaphorical or some shit. Good enough. Dean looked back at Sammy again before taking the extra slips of paper and tucking them into a blue school folder that was empty. Then, he shoved it into the bottom of his duffle bag before switching off the light and crawling into bed.

"G'night Sammy," he whispered before closing his eyes and letting the darkness encase him, his hand around the knife under his pillow.

Dean wasn't sure how to feel. They were getting their poems back today from Ms. Simmons, and he prayed that she didn't read into his poem too much, and that she liked it.

As it had become usual to see Dean in class early, he sat and waited nervously as the clock inched by and more students flooded in. When the bell rang, Ms. Simmons stood at the front of the classroom, holding a stack of papers.

That's probably our poems!

"Alright class, I'm going to hand back your poems today. I have to say, I'm proud the work you've put forth! Many of you wrote thoughtful and clever poems. I wrote some commentary on them as well, so when I call your name, come up and get your poem."

Dean shifted in his seat, waiting as she read off name by name until he heard "Dean Winchester" and rocketed to the front of the room, where he snatched the poem he'd titled "Three Constants" and went back to his seat.

Dean, Ms. Simmons' handwriting read, I really like what you've written here. I like how the narrator is focusing on the three things that keep them alive, keep them human almost. The imagery of the demons chasing and being chased like cat and mouse is also very powerful. This is fantastic work Dean. My offer still stands, if you have more work! 15/15

"I got an A," he whispered quietly to himself in shock.

Dean looked at the paper again, a thought catching in his brain. I'm good at this. I am actually good at this.

Suddenly, he couldn't wait until the bell rung and he could go home and write and write and write.

Talking's okay I guess

But it all comes out wrong so easily and

Inevitably like an ice cube outside the freezer

You'll end up hurting or being hurt

But with writing,

Everything's different

There's a process of thinking then writing then editing

You can take out all the bad parts

And be left with only what won't

Scar or tear or weaken

Dad came home the next day, though, and he didn't even have time to swing by Ms. Simmons' classroom to tell her thanks. Dean Winchester hated chick flick moments, but he was kind of sad he missed this one.