Title: Fallingbr> Author: PsychoticScam
Pairing: mild Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warning: incest, cutting and swearing. Lots of Dean whumpage.
Disclaimer: I do not own this what so ever. I only rent. No sueing me.
A/N: This is dedicated to a dear friend of mine. He's falling and I'm going to be there to catch him. This is a one-shot. I may continue it if I feel inspired again. I'm sorry if Dean is a bit...emo or OOC. I'm really looking for an excuse for tons of Dean whumpage, cause it's love and I love it when I'm sad.
Summary: Dean's Falling Sam's Catching.


Dean really didn't know how Sam could do it. He's always been the stronger of the two in many ways (though not by strength), especially when it came to emotions. Dean couldn't hold back the whimper that he let go silently, trying so hard to keep it all in and in the end it was hurting him. It wasn't like anybody could hear him in the bathroom. He rested his head lightly against the toilet seat, the scent of the inner bowl attacking his senses and making him want to throw up again. He just helped it along. He heaved into the bowl, a nasty murky coloured brown exuding from his lips and trailing a fire up his throat as the choking sensation of air being torn from him dived in. He didn't want to be like this. He wanted to be strong, like Sam. Sam was Superman in his eyes, just less powerful. All of it had finally pent up and it was begging him to be let free, screaming in his mind and pushing against his chest, constricting his lungs so he could have the strength to just belt out a chorus of agony that would last an hour. But he couldn't. He was broken, and no one could fix him. Not even God. He was on replay, revisiting the same old thing.

He was just a broken man who didn't know how to show his emotions.

Everything he had gone through as a child, teenager and up 'till now just didn't want to show itself, afraid of the world and it's reactions. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He felt like if he did, he'd break completely and never be the same. He felt like he'd never amount to anything, just stay a nobody when he wanted to be a somebody anybody could rely one but everbody didn't. Because he wasn't strong. If anything, he felt so weak, he wanted the easy way: curling up and dying. He pulled himself back, resting against the border of the tub that they had in the slightly cramped excuse of a room for a bathroom. It made everything seem so much bigger than him and it was threatening to enclose on him, suffocate him of all contact he had with reality and toy with his mind until he couldn't take it anymore and choke and sputter, gasping for breath. Just the thought made his stomach churn.

After Dad died--because of him--he considered ending it with his knife. Then he saw the gun, and thought that'd be much better; faster. More efficient and he wouldn't suffer. But he deserved to suffer. He was nothing but a heartless jerk. Hell, his own brother hated him. He still didn't forget the Asylum creep. And how Sam turned on him with that gun, blood cascading from his nose and his eyes with this malace burning there. No--not malace. Hatred. He called his bluff, and Sam shot him. His brother fucknig shot him. Through a wall. Then he pulled the trigger. Three times. IT was a good thing Dean had the right mind to give him a faulty. Or was it? He dind't know anymore.

This world didn't love him anymore. Heaven's or hell's gates wouldn't open up for him, for fucks sake. He was crawling around on his hands and knees like a blind with no sense of anything, and everything was snatched away from him; out of his grasp everytime he reached for someone he needed to be there, someone he needed to be loved by. The walls looked like a cellar now, the windows like bars and his soul was on a wild, terrifying ramage inside of him, cursing and attacking him mentally, trying to break him, but he wouldnt let it. He couldn't. He was supposed to be the strong one. The one he needed, he couldn't have.

The one he had, he didn't deserve.

He would call out his name everytime he needed him by his side, scream even and he'd coming running. Just like that. An obiediant lover.

Dean just couldn't cope with the fact that he was falling. He knew what it felt like to be the last one standing, to be the only one who understands why they did what they did. He had to teach Sammy that, too. What was wrong and right, and how to know one from the other without having to argue or bicker. He was supposed to be the hero; not Sam. He was supposed to be the one everyone could rely on. He wanted to show them what he could and can be, just didn't have the guts to be. He could understand why Sam wanted to leave this life behind, he really could. He wanted that sometimes, too.

He had been the dark angel that had brought Sam back into this fucked up life, and he had been the one to feel those black wings break; sharp, jolting pains of riding guilt that subdued him and owned him, bombarding him with such a racket that he was impressed--though only slighty--that he was still sane. He felt as each feather was plucked with such hatred from shattered wings, and how the downfall began with the guilt and suffering on his shoulders. My fault. He kept telling himself. Then he saw Sam. Sam was his light. His source of energy.

When he was in that coma, and he saw himself, and Sam sitting there with such concern and his eyes welled with so many tears that it must've unfocused his eyesight, and how glumy he was and how bad Dean felt that it was his fault. He didn't know how, but the voice in his head kept telling him that.

Your Fault. He doens't need you; he never needed you. You just brought him back into your pathetic life just so you had something to use.

And it was right. He felt like he was on the end of the building, that 18 story building of his mind, and preparing for the swan dive to the bottom, lacking the grace and dignity he didn't deserve. He wanted to take that risk. He didn't want to have anyone have to take his mindless bullshit, all because he couldn't handle what was coming. Sam had asked him if he was okay with Dad's death, but all he ever fucking said was, "I'm fine." And that voice would say, You Fucking Lier.

He was falling and he was bringing everyone around him down with him.

He wanted to scream, just scream. Nothing else. Scream out and let it go, cry and roar with anger and let emotions fly but he couldn't. Because he was strong. The voice gave a wicked, dead laugh that deadpanned him like a slap to the jaw, one that could snap it off it's hinge. You're not strong if you're falling. He didn't think he needed anyone. He didn't need saving; he could save himself. How wrong he was. He was going to tear everyone down then stand once more and find himself alone and broken, with no one to fix him. And he knew that.

As he snapped back to the real world, he felt another painful spite of bile rising, burning his intestines and making him make this tortured, glutteral sound before he haunced himself once more over the toilet bowl, his stomach clenching and his chest heaving, his shoulders shuddering with his efforts, only to feel nothing but a sour acid flood his mouth, sticking to his tongue like a disease and holding tightly, making him feel like nothing. With shuddering, unevened and pained breaths, he placed his hands against the shinning toilet bowl and use it as leverage as he stood on weak, trembling legs. He carelessly flapped the seat of the toilet down, before sitting on it, feeling it sink in under his muscular weight as they all did. He let his eyes wander, feeling haunted and lost, his stomach churing and he felt like he wanted to throw up but there was nothing left.

Then he saw it.

Sitting there, was the same knife he had used on countless creatures to kill them. Sitting right there on the edge of the sink, urging him, calling him, telling him to pick it up. Use it and abuse it in ways a knife wasn't meant for. His breathing wavered, hitching and releasing, before he finally built up enough courage to stand, running on pure energy, his hand inclined and reaching toward the knife. He let out a gasp as his hand took the cold handle in his palm, feeling it mold and brushed his thumb across the edge of the knife, watching how the sharpened teeth bit into his skin, creating a slight fold where blood quickly filled. A thin line of what he didn't need. He ground his teeth together, his jaw line becoming taught and rigid with need. He wanted to see more of what it could do. Taking the blade, he pressed it against his skin, feeling the push of pressure, before he slowly grazed it along, feeling how skin parted to make way for the serrated silver, and how blood rushed up to meet the world.

He wanted more.

Stumbling backwards, he felt the back of his knees hit the toilet and he just buckled, letting himself land hard on it and his back crush against the back of the toilet. He inspected the knife, seeing how only a small trace of the thick liquid of life glistened on it in the dull light of the moon, sorting him into a trance that made him want to see more of that effect. Pulling back his sleeves, he revealed the vulnerable flesh of his wrist, but it looked oh-so inviting. Again, he slid the edge of the weapon along flesh, this time the back of his wrist, not even paying attention to where he was cutting, just content that he was. The voice was praising him now, saying how good this felt and how it was for the best. He continued this small ritual, his breathing increasing with each cut, not even noticing the handle turning. Only when the hinges of the door squealed in an annoucement, did Dean looked up from his wallowing.

There stood Sam, eyes wide and looking quite breathless, concern edging his mocha orbs.

"Dean," He said breathlessly, and for a moment, they did nothing but stare. Sam was the first to regain any noligable sense, because he moved forward with swift feet. Something odd happened. A growl ripped from Dean's throat--sounding neither human nor animal--and he raised the knife, holding it on show as his blood made small designs along the molecules of his skin, which looked like snowflakes if you looked hard enough.

"Don't." His voice was hard, stern, almost giddy with something along the lines of insanity. Sam's brows furrowed with confusion, his eyes squinting as he did, forhead creasing softly.

"Dude, you're fucking cutting yourself! What the hell is wrong with you?!" He all but screamed, motioning forward again. Dean's jaw clenched and he jerked with the weapon, his eyebrows etched with anger or fustration.

"I'm not worth it, Sammy," He gasped, his lip trembling, his eyes burning with unshed tears, "Just...I'm not worth it." He inclined toward himself with the knife, and Sam's shoulders sagged, his arms falling helplessly to the side.

"Dean..." He swallowed, his Adam's Apple bobbing with the action, and he slowly shuffled his feet closer when Dean looked at his torn and bleeding wrists as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "Oh god, Dean, What've you done?" He broke off with his voice cracking brokenly, hating how it rasped into a whisper that reflected his weak side. Dean looked up, reminding Sam of the Shapefshifter from a year ago, and let out a shakey breath.

"Face it, Sammy. I'm falling and I'm taking everyone with me! Lookit Dad! He's gone and that was my fault! He did it because of me! I'm going down, and I'm crashing hard and the end isn't looking so bright, little bro! I'm not gunna stand it! I don't want to tear you down again! I'm sick and tired of this life, and I'm ready to get rid of it!" His voice became louder and louder until it was a near scream, his monstrosity of a hand gripping the blade so hard his knuckles were a pale white and his other hand was balled in such a tight, straining fist that it mad blood sputter from the many cuts, running over unafflicted flesh and staining it. Sam watched, horrified, before he snapped back. Dean was serious. He was going to end it.

"Dean," Said brother motioned toward his neck with the knife, "DEAN! NO! Stop and hear me out! DEAN!" Relief flooded through him when Dean obliged, though he looked really reluctant, the serrated and killing edge exetremely close to his neck and making Sam uncomfrotable. He reached a hand out slowly, palm facing Dean in a soothing manner as his other came up only half way.

"Calm down, okay?" Dean's face was red with determination, his cheeks huffed out as he breathed harshly, but Sam's main concern was the knife and the amount of blood splattering onto the floor with small little sounds of plut, plut, plut. He repeated his command lightly, and Dean nodded slowly, as if he were repsonding to a child.

"Dean, it's not your fault. This is our life. Bad things are gunna happen, and we're always gunna be one step behind them. We can't help it or stop it. We can try, but sometimes all the work we put into it isn't going to turn out with positive results, okay?" He spoke slowly and carefully, not wanting to encourage his brother accidently. He swallowed, his tears breeching through his barrier he had worked so hard on rebuilding. He shifted his stance and posture, arching his back out a bit. "You're not gunna tear it down. Dean, if anything, you're helping me rebuild it." He swallowed past the block in his throat, his voice becoming thick against his tongue. "Are you really going to throw this away? Me away?" Dean to consider this, his eyes softening slightly. That's it, Sam thought. "You can't just run away from things like these; it's gunna hurt you."

"And anyone around me! Damnit, Sammy! I'm not strong like you are! I know I lookit, and I act it, but look at you! You always know what you want, and you go after it! Hell, you always stood up to Dad! I wished I had even the slightest--I admire that about you! I could never do that! I'm always the follower! I can't be strong! Not like you!" His voice sounded terrifyingly weak at the end, and Sam knew he was running thin on time. Fighting the sobs in his throat, begging to come out, he moved closer to his older brother.

"Dean," Dean had averted his gaze back down to his wrists, sobbing red, and if Sam wanted, he could've disarmed him of the knife, but could also inflict more damage. He stood his ground, and repeated, "Dean." When his brother's eyes stopped wandering and locked on him, his moss green eyes looking haunted and lifeless, he let out a breathless, unamused laugh.

"Dean. Listen to me. You are strong. They're are different kinds of strong. Hell, when things looked bad and you thought it was the end, you didn't give up then, did you? Dean, if anything, you're the strong one! I couldn't even--" He was about to bring up Jess, but they had had an agreement about her. No more talking or even mentioning her was the rule. Well, rules were meant for bending. "I couldn't even save Jess. You saved me, Dean. Hell, you saved me tons of times! So I'm gunna pay you back. If you're gunna fall, I'm gunna be there to catch you. You know why, Dean?" When Dean's eyes asked, he whispered softly, "Because your worth it." Dean's hand loosened, and his eyes looked slightly relieved and his arm fell, bringing the knife with it. His lip began to tremble violent, before he bowed his head to hide it, and the familiar sounds of sobbing wrenched from his older brother, his entire body shuddering with the huge, gasping breaths as he let everything go. Sam moved to his brother, taking him in his arms and falling to the floor with them both, Dean's form atop his. He pressed a bear paw of a hand against his brother's head, pressing it gently against his shoulder and his other arm wrapped around his shoulder. He made soothing sounds, rubbing his back and trying to calm him. Eventually, Dean's sobs stopped almost abruptly. When Sam pulled him back, however, he toppled lifelessly the other way.

"DEAN!" Catching him was the easy part.

Saving him was the hard part.