Pairing: Sam/Dean

Setting: Set somewhere in the 7th season. May include spoilers.

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 1,783 words

A/N: Suicide!fic. Graphics descriptions of a suicide attempt included.NO character death.


It was getting dark outside. Dean had run out to get something to eat for them. Big brother…

If he knew what Sam's mind had been playing over and over again, he wouldn't have gone out. But how could he? Sam only let Dean in on so many things. He told Dean that Lucifer sang Stairway to Heaven. He told him that Lucifer talked to him. Annoyed him. He never told Dean that Lucifer had been playing every single time Dean had died, repeatedly. He never told Dean that he already watched himself finding their father's motionless body on the hospital floor for over 200 times. He never told Dean that Lucifer had been whispering with Dean's voice. Engraving Sam's heart with words that became impossible to process when they came out with Dean's voice. A tinge of disgust in the faked sounds…

He had learned to bottle it all up, push it down. Let it poison him from the inside. With insomnia added to the combination, Sam had started to believe that Dean was dying. Again… Again… Again… He felt the devil's hand, grasping his insides, clawing, exposing every nightmare Sam had. Most of them featured Dean. Dean away. Dean dead. Dean happy without him. Dean suffering. And Sam was holding on. He was holding on to the last piece of reality he had. Dean was alive. He was breathing next to him for weeks. But not right now. Not at this moment. Dean was out of reach. Out of sight. And Sam had no idea if he was okay. He let himself fall onto the bed.

Two hands over his pacing heart. They were his own. He pressed harder as if he was trying to slow it down. Or stop it completely. Stop the pain. Stop the sounds. It seemed like a good idea.

He felt the relief take him over. Drag him down. Now he had a way out. But knowing this didn't stop the images. Dean was still dying. He was still useless against the crimson painting his brother's stomach. He felt himself slide off the bed, onto the floor, next to Dean's duffel.

Warm wet drops grazed down his cheeks. His control was gone. He was locked inside his mind. The one place he once went to hide from the monsters; was the monster haunting him. He felt Dean. He had claws. And another Dean, lying on the floor, choking in his own blood. He didn't know which one was the real one. He didn't know which one hurt more. The one trying to kill him, or the one getting killed… He covered his face, wishing he had somewhere to escape.

Minutes passed, and the voice never stopped whispering. Dean was dying for the millionth time, and it was the last drop of patience, the last bit of resistance Sam had left. His hands fell to his sides, one of them hitting the duffel, tilting it sideways.

There it was. The way out. The color of desert, the texture of trees. It was right there. A piece of rope. Heavy on the eyes. Just lying there. Made for other purposes of course. But not tonight. Nothing was ordinary tonight.

With the last of his muscle power, Sam took the rope. He knew how to make the knot. Didn't do him any good till now. But it was just about to…

There was nothing on the room's ceiling he could tie it to. But the window's handle seemed strong enough to carry him to peace. To silence. A drop trickled down his face, mocking him for giving a window handle, one of the most poetic duties in life. In all its simplicity, that window handle would take on a burden so big; it would be scared if it was human.

Behind foggy eyes, Sam saw his hands move, shaking occasionally with every new image of his brother.

The rope wasn't long enough to let him sit down. That was exactly what Sam had in mind. He took the knot in his hands, stared, hesitating. Then another image flashed and he wore it over his neck, with anger and desperation. There was no doubt left. He needed it to stop. He needed the silence. He needed his brother, not covered in his blood. But that wasn't going to happen. This rope was all he had left.

He lowered himself onto the floor. Tears now soaked up in his shirt. As the rope started to get tighter, his body took the form of a man, who was halfway to sitting, his spine slowly hitting the wall below the window as his body shook. He struggled for air. He found salvation in the pain. It succeeded in doing what the scar on his hand stopped doing a short while ago. The images slowly left their place to the dark blurry form of the motel room.

A scream from afar. His ears didn't pick it up at first. It was distant. He felt like it should've been close, but his ears were stuffed with cotton. He didn't care. He was close to silence. His body screamed and shook for air, but his mind didn't care. As his eyes slowly started to close, his body now still, he heard the whisper.


It was different. It wasn't coated in disgust. It was worried. He wondered what made Dean worried. Then he let himself float. The caring arms of death wrapped around him and he leaned into it…


Dean had gone out. Only for half an hour. Sammy couldn't fight with the hallucinations on an empty stomach. He needed his strength. And Dean was being the caring big brother that he is. He thought he was doing good. He was led to believe that Sam's hallucinations were not maddening. He let himself believe they were doing better.

All of that shattered when he walked in. His baby brother with a rope around his neck. His body was curved, not allowed to sit. Purple had settled around his neck, and lips that once knew how to smile, how to talk, how to confide in him. But apparently Sam had stopped doing that. He was still shaking. That meant he still had a chance. He dropped the food bags on the floor. He desperately struggled for the hunting knife in his boot.

Sam's body fell limp on the floor when he cut the rope. Thank god he's still breathing. Thank god thank god. I was in time. Sammy. Sammy, why?

He sat down next to him, bringing Sam close, wrapping himself around him, as if it would bring all the air back into his body. He started rocking them both, as his tears fell down his face. His mind was set on one thing and one thing only. SammySammySammy

When he found the willpower to lift himself off the floor, he grabbed his brother's tired body, and laid him on the bed. Sam needed his rest. He needed to be strong. He needed to wake up.

Dean found comfort in Sam's chest falling and rising, indicators that his brother hasn't slipped from his hands. Dean curled in next to him. One hand on Sam's chest, the other under his head, and he waited.

He waited till Sam woke up 6 hours later. His eyes were bloodshot, swollen from crying, but they didn't miss Sam's eyes slowly opening up to the world again. A world that brought him nothing but pain... Dean swore to himself that he would change that.

"Sammy." Dean whispered. His voice hoarse and cracked. "Are you okay?"

Tears welled up in Sam's eyes as he remembered last night. "Dean! You were dead… There was so much blood… I… I didn't want to see it so… the window…." Sam stopped trying make sense and started sobbing uncontrollably as the tears washed all worry and pain away. Dean was alive.

His hands clenched Dean's shirt, he pressed his face into Dean's chest, wetting the shirt with his tears, he took Dean's smell in, found comfort in Dean's chest rising and falling, oblivious to the fact that Dean had done the same not long ago. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam and pulled him closer. They haven't touched each other like this…since they were kids. Dean had tried not to. Sam had tried not to. But they missed it. All the wrong, no, you're brothers were meaningless now. They needed this, Dean nuzzled his face into Sam's neck.

His heart ached at the sight of that purple collar he wore. A reminder of all the pain. Everything he'd gone through while Dean was not here. Dean wanted to make it better. Take it all away. He pressed chaste kisses over the purple. Wishing they would go away. Sam relaxed into the kisses. He gave into his brother's hesitant touches.

They were crossing some line, they knew it. But it just didn't seem to matter. They had been craving this for so long. But it was really happening now. They were acting on it. Letting go. Leaning into the "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you" kisses. Dean kissed every inch of Sam's purple skin. They weren't gone. But he knew they were better.

Sam looked up at his brother's swollen eyes. He didn't have to say anything anymore. Dean knew. And he didn't need Sam to explain to say exactly what he needed to hear. "I'm here Sammy. I'm not going to die. I'm not leaving you here. I'll never leave you." And Sam pressed their lips together. He muffled out a "Thank you." between the air they shared for a brief moment. Then they devoured each other's lips hungrily. They shared soft, apologetic kisses.

Dean forgave Sam, and Sam forgave him. They left all the dead weight behind. They pulled each other close. Sam listened to Dean's heartbeat. Just like he did when he was trying to sleep at night when they were kids.

He had found silence. If Dean was around, he didn't believe in the visions. He didn't believe in anything but Dean. The heat that his body radiated when he was hovering over Sam - it was all the proof he needed.

The way Dean licked at his mouth, softly bit down on his lower lip, and stroked his ribs; it was all Sam needed to drag himself right out of that dark place in his mind.

And he did. He dragged himself out, dusted himself off, and kissed Dean back. He gave as much as he got.

They may be each other's weak spot, of course… but they were also what made them invincible. Resistant to anything but each other's touch.