PS I LOVE YOU, Sam/Dean, Mild R
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Title: PS I Love You.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning: Dean is dead at the start of this story. Sex. Language.
Rating: Mild R
Summary: Sam gets letters from Dean, instructing him to do things.
Based on the movie “PS I Love You”, for the abouttwoboys challenge. I have changed parts of the movie. I am late for this challenge I realize - family illness.
Thanks to astrothsknot and halfshellvenus for their much appreciated help.
The harsh, impatient rapping at the door continues.
Sam pulls his book closer, trying not to listen, but the noise reverberates through the tiny room. It’s the smallest room they’d been in for a while. Dean had bitched jokingly about wanting a better send off, but they’d both liked the closeness, loving that they were only an arm’s reach away from one other. Sam would cross the room and his elbow would jostle Dean’s, or Dean would lean over and his foot would catch Sam’s.
Even that small space had been too much for them, somehow managing to keep them too far apart.
Now the room feels so large it threatens to swallow Sam whole.
The knocking continues, the rhythm of life outside drumming into Sam’s brain. He wants to ignore it but the whisper in his head tells him it might be the clerk, that if he wants to stay he needs to pay.
Sam swings the door open. Bobby darts his foot forward with surprising agility, preventing Sam from shutting it.
“C’mon Sam. Come back with me.”
Sam shuffles back to where his books lie, shining with a faint glimmer of hope.
“Sam.” Sam feels Bobby walk over and stand behind him. He doesn’t look around. “Sam, Dean, he wouldn’t-”
“Don’t tell me what Dean would or wouldn’t want me to do.” The words ricochet around the room.
“He’s gone, Sam. If there was any way to get him back, we’d have found it.” Bobby’s gentle words hit Sam harder than any physical blow.
Sam whirls around, knocking over a book. He bends to put it back. He needs it all in order.
“You don’t know that.” He balls his fists by his side.
Bobby steps away. “Look after yourself Sam. Try to eat. I’ll…” Bobby shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll come back.”
Sam turns back to his books, not bothering to watch him leave.
*
Another impatient knock at the door interrupts Sam. He pushes his book aside. If it’s Bobby he’ll tell him to go.
It’s a teenager holding a pizza box. He clicks his tongue and holds it out. “Delivery.”
“I didn’t order it.” Sam reaches for the door.
The teen sighs a worldly sigh. “It’s paid for. S’got your name on it.”
Sam leans forward. There’s a white envelope stuck to the top. Scrawled on it in Dean’s spidery handwriting is the word, “Sam.”
Sam grabs the box and slams the door. His hands shake as he tears open the envelope.
Sam.
I don’t have much time to tell you this. I mean, literally. You’re out getting coffee and you’ll be back any second.
I guess if you’re reading this we couldn’t stop it, huh?
I’m sorry. That I’ve left you.
I’m guessing you’ve been holed up in this tiny room thinking you can get me back. I’m guessing you haven’t eaten or gone out and are starting to smell pretty bad about now.
Well guess what? I’m gonna send you letters. And you have to do what they say, okay? I mean, it’s the least you can do. I am dead, after all.
So I want you to get up and go out. Go for a run. As fast as you can. Wherever you like. Gotta keep in shape, Sammy.
Dean
P.S. Eat the goddamn pizza. I even let you have mushrooms on it.
Sam reads the words over and over. He examines every loop of Dean’s letters. He runs his finger over every drop of the black ink that brings the page to life. It’s paper stolen from a motel several states before. Sam tries to remember seeing Dean write it, but he can’t.
He has no idea how Dean managed to keep it a secret. How he organized it.
The ache inside Sam is so deep he thinks he might fall right into it and lose himself, never finding his way out. He struggles to keep himself balanced on the precipice, and reaches for his shoes.
He’ll do what Dean says.
*
Sam doesn’t bother stretching. Instead, he sets straight off down the road, feet full tilt along the asphalt. His joints ache from being cooped up. The wind bites his face and arms, and he runs faster, pushing his legs as far as they’ll go.
He feels his body curve into it, fall back into place, like an engine whirring back into gear.
By the time the road reaches the trees, Sam’s running as fast as he can push his body, legs pounding wide leaps along the road, arms jerking a rhythm next to them. A race with Dean flashes into his head, the two of them running by a lake, glistening blue water on one side, leafy green trees on the other. Dean had pushed him faster again and again, until Sam’s limbs were burning with the effort. Sam had started to pull ahead, but then he'd realized Dean was lagging back deliberately.
Dean had let out a low chuckle. “Just wanted to get a look at your ass, Sammy.”
Dean had twisted his hands into Sam’s jeans and pulled him to the ground. Sam had grass tickling any bare patch of skin and dirt lodging itself under his nails as they fucked by the trees.
The loss hits Sam hard in the chest and he brakes suddenly, dropping to his knees, grazing them on the rough surface. He clutches his side with his hands, and for the first time, he cries.
*
Sam ventures out of his room to pay for his room for another week, ignoring the pitying look the clerk gives him. The clerk hands over a receipt for Sam’s stolen credit card money, and with it is another white envelope.
Sam.
How’d the run go? Bet you feel better for it.
You’re asleep right now. I’m awake ‘cause you dug your nails in pretty hard tonight. Man. Why is the sex so much better when one of us is about to die?
Remember, you promised to do what I said. So tonight I want you to go out and sing karaoke.
I mean it. Stop the eye rolling. Have a few beers and sing something. Whatever you like. One of your emo songs if you want.
Dean.
P.S. Those guns won’t clean themselves.
Sam runs his eyes over the letter. The ghost of a smile tugs the corner of his mouth.
Even in death, Dean is a pain in the ass.
*
A nineties ballad that Sam vaguely recognizes is being murdered when he arrives at the bar. He orders a beer and a tequila chaser to accompany it. The tequila burns pleasantly through Sam’s body, ending with a smolder in his belly. He orders another shot as he drinks his beer.
Several shots and beers later, and Sam’s buzzing with energy. The world is slurring around him but he feels connected to it. To everyone.
He chooses Back in Black. He figures Dean would approve.
Sam starts to sing, making noises for the guitars like Dean would. People start to jeer from the back of the room. Sam imagines what Dean would do, how he’d air guitar and strut his way through it. Sam waves his arm proudly in the air and gives a little jump. A couple of girls clap and laugh.
Sam remembers Dean singing along to the radio. Sam had leaned over once, unbuttoned Dean’s fly and taken him in his mouth. Dean had kept on singing as long as possible, then the words had stuttered away into grunts and groans. As soon as they were finished, Dean had rewound the song and sung it again. Sam had joined in, even though he didn’t know the words, and that’s when Dean had stopped singing, laughter keeping him from forming the notes.
Tears threaten to spill out of Sam’s eyes and he holds them back until the last note sounds. Then he races off the stage, blinking until he reaches the car and can cry in private.
He sleeps that night with his face buried in the pillow, imagining he can feel Dean’s warmth behind him.
*
A carefully folded envelope, pushed between Sam’s .45 and Dean’s. Sam laughs when he sees it, and pulls it out. The guns aren’t getting cleaned tonight.
Sam.
How’d the singing go? Get a standing ovation?
I thought not. I wish I could’ve seen it.
I know they’ll probably be taking me body and soul. I know you’re not expecting that. But hey. You’re not the only one who can research. I know that’ll be tough. ‘Cause it’d help you if you could burn me and cry over me and give speeches about my awesomeness.
Go to Mom’s grave. I’ve got something here for you to bury with Dad’s tags. With Mom. It’ll help you. I think.
Besides, the Impala will be itching for a long run by now.
Dean.
P.S. She needs a tune-up every now and then you know.
Sam turns the envelope over. A gleaming silver ring falls into Sam’s palm. He tries it on until he finds a finger that fits it. He’ll take Dean home.
*
The drive feels longer than the several days it takes. Sam’s conscious of the empty seat next to him. About a day away from the grave - from Mom - Sam starts talking into the silence, telling Dean random things about the last few days. The woman who murdered Metallica at karaoke. The couple obviously fucking in the forest on his run. The attendant at the gas station who under-charged. He imagines Dean’s laughing replies, and tries to fill them in.
It’s not the same.
Once he’s a few hours away, he stops talking, finds a music station and turns it up loud.
Sam heads straight for Mom’s grave with no preliminaries. He kneels by the stone, lifting his hand to touch the letters that mark her name. No words mark Dad’s spot, or Dean’s. He doesn’t remember them any less.
He squeezes his eyes tight, tears finding their way out at the edges. He blinks them back.
Sam digs a hole in the grass, and drops Dean’s ring into it. He places his hand over it. “Love you,” Sam whispers.
He remembers their first time, the hesitant kiss. The guilt. He wishes they hadn’t wasted so much time before, so much time after, being angry and sad and guilty.
He wishes he could have saved Dean.
Sam sits by the grave in silence for hours, with his family.
*
There’s a letter waiting for Sam at the reception desk of the motel he checks into. He stares at it, unbelieving. How did Dean get it there? Sam wants to interrogate the clerk, to force her to tell every memory she might possibly have of Dean so he can cling to every morsel that keeps Dean alive.
He lets Dean have his mystery.
Sam.
I know hunting was never in your plan. If I had a do-over…I don’t know if I’d want it for us. So if you decide you want to leave it behind, that’s okay by me.
But we know it’s important. Not just ‘cause it’s the family business. ‘Cause of all the people we saved. The people who, because of us, don’t have to deal with death.
So you've got to get back to it. At least for now. The more time you spend trying to save me, the less time you’re saving other people. Take a hunt. Any hunt. Bobby’ll have one.
Trust me.
Dean.
P.S. Try to find one that’ll take you through Minnesota. Hit up that bar. Sharky’s? Lucky’s? The one where we fucked in the alley.
Sam throws the letter far across the room. He follows it with all the pillows from his bed. Sam doesn’t want letters. Sam wants Dean back. Sam wants Dean to stop putting Sam first, even in death, ‘cause that’s what caused this whole fucking mess.
He follows the pillows with his books, which land with soft thuds onto the messy pile.
Everything goes into the corner. Everything is thrown at Dean. Dean, who realized too late that he didn’t want to die, with his goodbye fucking helpful letters.
Sam collects his belongings, tosses everything into the Impala and guns it to Bobby’s.
*
Bobby has a simple salt-and-burn on the Minnesota border. Sam feels like he’s being given an easy job, the kid on his first day back at school.
He takes it without complaint. He can hit Dean’s bar afterward.
Bobby stops him at the door with a hesitant smile. He reaches into his pocket and holds out an envelope. “Here.”
“You’ve got one?” Sam takes the envelope. “How did you…” The puzzle pieces slide into place. “The pizza. The motel. You did it. All of it.”
Bobby stares at his feet. “I just followed instructions. Dean did it all. I didn’t want to. Dean made me. He made me promise.” Bobby raises his eyes, and stares Sam intently in the face. “You’re supposed to read it after the hunt. It’s the last one.”
*
Sam lies down on his bed, stretching out until his feet hit the metal rail at the bottom. Dean would like that if he were here. He’d be planning sex positions around it before they’d gotten through the door.
The thought brings an actual smile to Sam’s face. He rolls over and fishes in his bag for the letter. He’s allowed to read it now.
Sam.
This is it. My last letter.
You don’t need me to tell you anything. You’ll be okay. You’re a great hunter. You’re a good man.
I’m proud of you. I know Dad would be too.
You've got to move on and leave me behind. Don’t spend your life trying to bring me back.
Look after yourself. Do lots of things you know I'd do.
Dean.
P.S. I love you.
Sam sleeps with the letter on his chest, and when he wakes, he tucks it into his front pocket. He drives through the night in the direction of Dean’s bar. He’ll have a drink there for Dean.
*
The place is empty except for a woman at the bar and an old guy sitting by the juke-box. Sam remembers it wasn’t much better the first time they were here- Lucky’s. They’d fucked in the alley, Sam nervous one of the three people inside would come out and catch them. Dean had laughed at him and simply thrust another finger into Sam that pushed out any of Sam’s doubts.
Sam orders a whiskey and sits at the bar. The blonde woman at the end gives him a small glance, then a smile. It’s not a smile to pick him up, just curious. Sam gives a nod back.
She wanders over, placing her glass next to his. “Sam Winchester?”
Sam’s hand moves to the hidden knife at his back.
She chuckles. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me. Drink with me?” She slides onto the stool next to Sam.
Sam keeps his hand steady on his weapon. “How do you know my name?” His voice is low and threatening.
She nods for the bartender to stay away. “I’ve been looking for you.” Words simple, direct. “I need your help.”
Sam allows himself to relax. Maybe she’s heard of him through a fellow hunter. “You have a …supernatural problem?”
“You could say that.” Her eyes meet his. Hers are a cool blue and as he watches, they flash a brilliant white, brighter than anything Sam’s ever seen. He feels peaceful just looking into them. He feels no danger from her. “Meaning that, I’m supernatural, and I have a problem.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. He hears Dean coughing in sarcastic doubt in his mind. Sam chokes a similar cough back. “What are you?” He keeps his voice low.
“I kind of…work for the other side. Than your usual friends. An angel, if you like.” She leans onto her elbows. “I crossed some demons, and they came and took their revenge.”
Her hand sweeps over her body.
“Trapped me in this person. It’s a sin to possess a human Sam.” She pokes her shoulder hard. “I feel her battling inside me to get out and I can’t help her.”
Sam wants to doubt everything she’s saying but her eyes are still fixed on his and he can’t question a word. He’s certain she’s telling the truth, as certain as he is of his own name. “How do you need me?”
“Well, now. I just need a human’s blood that’s been tainted with a demon’s. Any would do. It just so happens you’re the only one left.” She spreads her arms wide and her face cracks into a smile. “I gave up searching for you. Then of all the bars to walk into, you wander into mine.”
Sam’s throat is dry. “My brother and I…we came here once.”
She spreads her hands out flat on the table. “The demon who did this to me - he holds Dean’s contract. If you help me, I will certainly be able to help you.”
Sam agrees without hesitation.
*
She performs the spell in her kitchen, brass pans and tins of food surrounding candles and markings etched in Sam’s blood. He clutches his arm tight where she took it. She sits in the circle. Her face trembles.
“If this works…you have to help Suzie. She’ll be confused.”
Sam nods. He clears his throat. “Dean…”
“Wait here. I’ll return him to you.”
She closes her eyes.
Sam coughs. “I don’t understand - I searched so long for a way to save Dean. I prayed for so long. I gave up all hope.”
Her eyes flicker open. “Maybe somebody was listening. To us both.”
“Dean would say it’s coincidence.”
She laughs. “Tell him coincidence is God's way of telling you you're not seeing the bigger picture.”
She shuts her eyes and murmurs low, urgent words.
A light breaks out of her, engulfing the room. Sam’s thrown back onto the floor, overwhelmed by an intense burning sensation that feels like it’s ripping his skin right off him.
When he opens his eyes, a confused girl looks back at him. “What happened?”
*
Sam makes Suzie coffee as she tells him about the time she spent trapped. She says that nothing evil happened, that she thinks the angel made her a better person.
Sam feels ridiculous making small talk when his entire body is jittering with hope and excitement. He doesn’t want to doubt the angel’s word - if that’s really what she was - but he can’t hope to believe it either.
A crash outside draws their attention. Sam tells Suzie to stay put and grabs his gun. He edges to the door and peeks through it.
There’s a crumpled body lying at the bottom of the front steps, head and hands a couple of steps above a folded up pair of legs. The torso is bloodied, the face is torn, but Sam recognizes Dean in an instant.
He races down the stairs and lifts Dean’s head. Dean’s eyes slowly open and Sam’s tears meet Dean’s lips before he can kiss them. Dean’s lips are dry and he kisses back without any energy.
Sam pulls away. Dean blinks.
“Sam? What happened?” Dean rasps out.
“I was touched by an angel,” Sam says.
Dean’s eyes shut sleepily. “As long as it wasn’t anything dirty.”
Sam laughs and holds his brother tight.
*
Suzie insists they stay in her spare room and Sam doesn’t argue. He puts Dean to bed and Dean sleeps for three days straight. While he sleeps, Sam gently cleans and bandages Dean‘s wounds. Sometimes Dean lets out a scream and wakes, his eyes rolling scarily far back in his head.
When that happens Sam stops, and whispers words that mean nothing but seem to soothe Dean back into recuperative rest.
The physical marks won’t be the ones Sam has to worry about.
Dean stays awake on the fourth day, and they stare at each other in silence for several hours. Sam can’t stop looking at Dean, can’t believe that he’s here, that he’s back.
Dean doesn’t say much, whispers sarcastic comments about Sam‘s nursing skills and asks for caffeine, and Sam doesn’t want to push him. He knows Dean won’t tell him what he’s been through, that however Sam urges, it will be a burden Dean keeps to himself.
Sam tears himself away to bring Dean coffee, and when he returns, Dean’s dozing, his long eyelashes dark against too pale skin. Sam rests the mug on the table, and rummages in a drawer for a pen and paper.
He writes on the back of an old essay of Suzie‘s and props it up next to Dean’s sleeping form.
Dean.
I missed you. I knew what it must have felt like, when I died. I understand.
I know you don’t want to tell me. About hell.
That’s fine. For now. But this is my letter, and you have to do what I say, and someday, I’m going to make you share that burden. You won’t take anything on yourself again.
Sam.
P.S. I love you
***
Feedback is love.
NB: I took liberties by deciding Dean would go to hell body and soul, I realize. I also took liberties with the ending of the movie. I hope both of these are understandable.