You learned early on that your body is a tool. That hands are not more than flesh and fingers; that you were built to run, to fuck, to fight. That the digits of your hands wrap around the handle of a knife. Feed your brother, touch your own flesh, clench your fists around a throat; it’s all the same.
You are pushing forty now, flesh wearing, back hurting on days you don’t sleep right – and you never sleep right. Your life seems a collection of oddities, of ways to grasp too tight. You never really learned that gentle touch, or how to receive it; you learned to slam your chest against a door. You learned to stem the tide of misery with your body, learned to wrap yourself around something, hang on. You learned to use yourself, in so many ways; as parachute, as manacle, as knife.
You get softer as time goes on; you notice it, even now. You know you’re a young man, know that you’re strong, but this body is a house, and it is crumbling.
You don’t know how much longer you can stumble. Push your way through the pain, laugh as your legs crumble to dust.
You once held a skull between your hands and kissed it. You once held a baby in your arms, and pulled it away from the fire.
You are ragged; you are flayed.
Your skin comes off in stripes, unwinding from your arms like reels of film.
#i dont know#this is about dean idk if that's clear GOODBYE Yes; weirdly, that was clear since before you even mentioned 'feed your brother', though I'm not sure why. The fact that this is you probably helped with the expectations there, but still. :) And, yes. I think Dean's relationship to his own body is a very interesting one, and one that will get more complex as he ages (especially in the scenario where he has an unaging angel or two around him). Better explored in fic than on the screen, of course, because you can't admit or imply that your star's body might be anything less than perfect all the time...