A/N: I have no idea what I was on.


"You keep it away from me!"

"Keep what away from you, Dean?"

"That fucking bunny, keep it the Hell away from me!"

"Aww, Dean, are you scared of Mr. Fluffikins?"

"You bet I am! I still got cramps in my hand!"

"That wasn't his fault! No one made you write down all those poems,"

"That thing did, you know it did! I couldn't get to sleep until I wrote down every single idea that little fucker gave me,"

"I think it's called divine inspiration,"

"There was nothing divine about it! My hand hurts! And now I got a whole bunch of poems I gotta burn. You know how hard that is five floors up?"

"Where are all these poems you've written, Dean?"

"Like Hell I'm gonna tell you! Hey, I told you to keep it away from me!"

"Stop being such a baby Dean. You're just freaked out that you've got in touch with your more emotional side and need something to blame it on. Not even Dad believes you,"

"How do you know it's my emotional side? They could be pornographic poems for all you know,"

"I heard you crying, Dean,"

"I couldn't stop writing! I had cramp and my hand was still sore from where that bastard bit me and I just couldn't stop. I was freakin' possessed or something!"

"Yeah, sure Dean,"

"Don't you come any closer to me with that thing!"

"Oh, getting scared? What's he going to do? Leap at you and bite you again?"


"Oh, ok, so he is going to leap at you and bite you again. Sorry. You're probably making him nervous, though,"

"Me making it nervous? Jesus Christ, has it been sharpening those teeth?"

"Yeah, Dean, the little rabbit's been sharpening its teeth. Are you on something?"

"No, but you must be, how can you not tell that thing's evil? It has evil eyes!"

"It's a rabbit, it has rabbit eyes,"

"Oh shit, oh no, that's not fair,"


"I can't do it any more! Damn it, Sam! Why did you let that thing near me?"

"Dean? What's wrong?"

"Get me a pen, Sam!"


"Get me a fucking pen, before I start carving it into myself with a knife,"

"Carving what?"

"My God-damn poetry! Sam! Get me a pen! Now!"

"Jesus, all right already,"

"Took your time didn't you?"

"Shit Dean, what are you doing? Put that knife down!"

"Gimme the pen. Thank God... I told you, I freakin' told you! When I say get a pen, I mean now, not some time in the next hour!"

"Why would you want to cut yourself, Dean?"

"Because that little fucker's done something to me! Goddammit! This is not helping, I'm going to cripple my hand!"

"Dean, stop writing,"

"I can't, haven't you been listening to me? I physically can't, this isn't some writer's quirk, Sam!"

"Sure you can stop, you just... Jesus Christ, you can't, can you?"

"No! I can't! Fuck me, I thought you were supposed to be clever!"

"What should I do?"

"Kill it! Kill the son of a bitch!"

"With what?"

"Jeeze, I don't know Sam, the knife? Maybe?"

"What if it bites me?"

"Oh now you're worried?"

"Ok, hand me the knife,"

"Sam, I'm trying to stop my hand from falling off, I don't have so many of them free to help you kill the little fucker that you brought here in the first place,"

"Oh right, sorry,"

"Yeah, you better be,"

"Dean? Where's it gone?"

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me,"


"Did you get it?"

"I got its ear, but it got me, too. Oh yuck, that's nasty,"

"You're cleaning that up,"

"Did you see which way it went?"

"It's under your bed,"



"Can I use that pen?"

"Hell no! Sammy, just kill it!"

"But I... I really need to write this down,"

"Ignore it, Sammy, just kill the bastard,"

"I can't ignore it, Dean!"

"You're just going to have to! Sam! Quick! It's heading for the door!"

"Oh that's so not nice,"

"Like I said, you're cleaning it up. Ow! Watch the hand, Sammy!"

"Sorry... So... are you, uh, done with the pen?"

"God yes,"

"Can I use it?"

"The thing's dead, Sam,"

"I know,"

"Seriously? God, how are we even related?"

"Hey, it gave me a good idea, that's all,"

"Yeah well, I'm gonna go find me a bucket of ice for my hand,"

"You know, Dean, this poem isn't all that bad. You should-"

"Don't even think it, Sam. Never gonna happen,"

"Can I at least see the other ones you wrote?"

"No, they're personal,"

"Oh come on, Dean, like there's anything in them I don't know,"

"You're not seeing them and as soon as my hand is working, they're being burnt,"

"Can I keep this one?"

"Sure, whatever, geek,"

"What should we tell Dad when he gets back?"

"That your rabbit was a demon like I said all along, so we killed it, what else?"

"You going to show him your poetry?"

"I think you can guess the answer to that question,"

"You're just going to burn it?"

"Yes! Sheesh, you make it sound like I'm going to kill a puppy,"

"It made you cry, Dean, it could be good for you,"

"It made my hand hurt is what it did and on that note, I'm going to find me some ice. Happy writing, Shakespeare."