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Dean’s fingers are made of bird bones, and his heart is made of flower blossoms, but he can’t fix everything. He tries, as hard as his bird bone fingers can fumble and as much as his flower blossom heartbeats, but he can’t fix everything. His brother's veins are blue in nature, but he poisons his beauty with black demons that hollow him out until nothing is left of his petal skin and white bones. He pushes needles into his veins, with a piece of cloth tied along his forearm, and breathes in all of their words and smirks and dark gazes. With a push of his skinny finger, his veins darken. He lets them feed into him, and Dean can’t stop it. Nothing he says can stop it, and he can’t figure out what to do. His little brother was beautiful, skin tan and lips red, eyes sparkling with livelihood, but now, he is grey and black and gone and empty. Not ugly, but dim.
Demons lie. They’re not supposed too because they know everything we lie about, but they lie, too. The demons filling his veins lie to him, tell him that it’s worth it, and tell him that nothing else will take the pain away. But, the thing they lie the most about, is that it doesn’t hurt Dean. That it won’t affect his brother, that it only hurts himself. They make him believe his choices are selfless and give him reason to be angry when someone tries to care. When someone asks what’s wrong, or why he’s so faded. It isn’t fair to Dean, but he remembers it isn’t fair to him, either. It’s a disease, he knows that now, after being around it for so long. It’s like cancer, he can’t cure it, and no matter how much he wants to stop, he can’t cure it, either. It breaks him down more than anything else ever has before, more than anything ever will, and he’s submissive under it. He knows he’s strong enough, with his bird bone fingers and his flower blossom heart, to pull through and come out the other side with barely a scratch, but it’s his little brother and he can’t not care. It tears his flower blossom heart to shreds in his chest, and nothing will pull the parts back together, but he can’t fight himself to let go. He knows it’ll be better for him in the long run, but he can’t. He needs him, but he needs the black demons more.
He needs the lies they tell him, and he needs the truths they shy from him. He needs them more than his own brother, more than the only thing he’s ever needed before he met the black demons. He was easily replaceable, and Dean had never felt so worthless. His flower blossom heart was losing its petals, they were falling to his feet like he was changing seasons like his brother was dropping pounds, and he just couldn’t fucking fix it. He couldn’t grow his petals back, and he couldn’t turn his brothers veins blue again, so what good was he? His little brother tells him that he doesn’t want to die, that he just wants to feel good and to take the pain away. but Dean always tells him he’s killing himself anyway, because he is and because it kills Dean. He wishes he could swim through his veins instead, and tell him beautiful truths instead of the ugly lies the demons tell, but he can’t and he won’t so he should just stop., right? He always tells him 'give up, you can’t change me'. It’s true, no one can change before they want to change themselves. Dean can’t help but want his baby brother to change, he has to watch him destroy himself, and his bird bone fingers can’t put him back together. For once in his damned life, he can’t put someone back together. He’s patched up people more times then his flower blossom heartbeats, but he can’t patch up the only one that’s ever mattered. The only one he’s ever cared for.
Sometimes he tries too hard, fingers curled around his wrists, pinning them against the headboard as it banged back against the cream wall behind it. Sometimes he yelled I fucking hate you! into his neck, glistening with sweat, so much and so hard he hoped he could make himself believe it. Sometimes he takes it out with his hips, bashing forward into bone, brittle and breaking, and sometimes he doesn’t try at all. Sometimes he just doesn’t try at all, because he can’t pick his bird bone fingers up, or because his flower blossom heart is beating so fast it slows, or because he just can’t. It’s a lot of just can’t’s, but it’s all he can manage to say. He just couldn’t sometimes, because trying so hard means he’s gotta fall down sometimes. Even his bird bone fingers and his flower blossom heart get tired.
Dean can try, he can try and try and try to fix blue from black, but he can’t and he won’t. He know’s it, deep in his flower blossom heart, but he can’t find it unless his bird bone fingers tear it up in his chest. Dean has never been known to be good at letting the demons win, but he is known for letting his brother win every game.