An introspective piece?
Or something like that.
Maybe just a bunch of thoughts.
(I genuinely don't expect anyone to read this.)
Dean's never been very good with words.
They get tangled and twisted in his mouth, shredded to pieces behind his teeth, lodged under his tongue like bullets.
He doesn't know how to control them.
He doesn't think before he speaks, like everyone says he should, like it would solve all of his problems. But that's only because his thoughts never come out the way he wants them to; they're a foreign language to him by the time they trip off his tongue, unrecognizable and perhaps mildly terrifying.
Dean knows he's not a failure. He knows he has talent, even if he's the only one who recognizes it. But the vast majority of those who say they believe in him recognize him for nothing more than what he does for a living, what he breathes, what he loves.
He's a fuck up at everything else, they say. All he's good for is wrestling.
He knows he's a fuck up everywhere else. He can't even control something as basic as the words that come out of his goddamn mouth.
Many a relationship he's lost from those words. Friends and lovers alike, they've all been pushed away, and now he's alone.
The sweet success of being a champion is still warm on his tongue, but there's a bitter aftertaste, too, lingering at the back of his throat, one he can never get rid of.
Not with Seth gone, not with Roman gone, the only two he'd ever known who saw more in him than just wrestler or fuck-up. The two that had loved him, he only knows that now, had loved him enough to believe in every goddamn word he said, down to the lie that he didn't want them anymore, didn't need them anymore.
He still wants them, still needs them, but he'd poisoned them so much with lies he knows there's no longer room for him.
They have each other now, and he knows it's better that way.