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Obsession: the state of being obsessed with someone or something; an idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a person's mind.
Dean Winchester was perfectly aware of the definition. He knew what the word meant. Hell, he had witnessed it enough in his day, from demons to angels to monsters beneath the bed.
His own had been mentioned countless times, throughout the years; that obsession being one Sam Winchester.
His had begun the moment he had first heard the words, “You’re going to be a big brother, Dean!” Hands on his mother’s stomach as it got bigger, little baby Sammy growing inside her. Feeling little kicks and movements. Talking to his mom about the things he was going to teach Sam, the things they would do together (and he wonders, sometimes, what she would think of the things he has taught Sam, the things they do together).
His obsession is born of love, devotion, absolution. The moment he first laid eyes on the tiny little being in his mother’s arms, reached out to touch tiny, tiny fingers and look into bright, bright eyes, Dean was enamored. Hooked. One-hundred-and-fifty-perfect Sam’s. Right from the very, very beginnings.
They call it obsession, love, possessiveness, when you're completely wrapped up in object of your affection. When you watch their every move and devote nearly every thought to them. When you can’t breathe when you hear their voice, and you can’t eat and you can’t think and you can only wantwantwant.
Dean’s love for his brother is so hard, so mad, so complete, that he went to Hell for him. He fought angels and demons for him. He fought every single thing that tried to come between them, every single thing that tried to separate them. He fought death for him, crawled his way out of Purgatory and back to life for him. He fought and he scraped and he begged when he had to beg because fuck pride, fuck it, it was nothing compared to a life without his brother.
When his hands shake, it’s Sam who calms him. When he wakes in the night, gasping for breath he can’t catch and searching for monsters in the dark, it’s Sam’s arms around him. When he bleeds, it’s Sam who cares for him. When he dies, it’s Sam who brings him back. When he hurts, it’s Sam who comforts. When he’s lost, it’s Sam who finds him.
It’s all Sam. It’s always been all Sam.
He didn’t stand a chance, see. He belonged to his brother when his brother was a vague concept, a new beginning, a positive test and joyful parents. When his beautiful, flawed, imperfectly perfect little brother was set into this world, he was Dean’s and Dean was his.
There was never a doubt and never a chance that it would be any other way.
It’s 2:30 a.m. on a Tuesday, and they’re taking the night off. Lying on the Impala’s hood, staring up at the skies. Dean talks about counting the stars and Sam points out constellations and Dean calls him nerd boy and their lips meld together so perfectly, and Dean can’t breathe, he’s so in love.
“I’d die for you, Sammy,” he tells his baby brother - his life, his light, his heart - when they finally separate.
“Again?” Sam presses against his side, strong arm around his waist and head on his shoulder.
“Always.”
“Well, don’t,” hazel eyes, eyes like stars if stars were that colour, that beautiful, met his gaze, “If you go, I’m going with you.”
This madlove, it could kill them both. It had, it probably would again, but they would always find one another.
It wasn’t obsession, it was absolution.
They stare at the skies for a long time, safe in each other.
This love,
it binds us
to chaos & moonlight
[& dark things within.]
It burns the stars,
paper thin,
to mark beginnings
[& paint obsession]