Chronologically follows Last Time was Just a Warm Up.

**gen (with strong romantic/nonsexual overtones). future!fic. soulmate!fic. au!fic. cuddle!fic.

Spoilers through Season 6.

We Have Only Begun to Love

by M.S.C.

Maybe it's because he's only had his soul back for a month and every feeling still has an unnatural sharpness. Maybe, he theorizes, his soul came back with a little extra something, a sixth sense, a nonhuman ability. Whatever the reason, Sam notices. It's the first sign he sees that what lies between him and Dean is going to be different now, different than how they were before Sam went to Hell.

It's in the way Dean looks at him. Sam can sense that Dean regards him in a way he hasn't for a long time, not since before Dean went to Hell, maybe farther back than that. Maybe not since before Sam died in Cold Oak. (And God, that feels further away than it actually is.)

They fall back into step like two dancers reuniting for a routine they've performed a million times before. Thoughtless, natural, easy. It isn't that Sam and Dean are actually doing things differently; it's the feeling that changes. They have their Chick Flick Moment of the century over Sam staying alive and all of sudden, the tension's gone. Or at least dramatically relieved.

Sam can feel that old simplicity between them, before everything got fucked up and twisted with demon deals and secrets and betrayal and the Apocalypse. Yeah, they still have to worry about this Alpha bullshit and Crowley taking over Purgatory and missing angel nukes, but it might as well be a line-up of ordinary cases.

It feels like they're brothers again, the way they used to be: when Dean was more inclined to punch some other guy's lights out instead of punching Sam, when Sam didn't feel like the tainted son of a bitch who chose a demon over his brother, when neither one of them had anything to be guilty over beyond ordinary human mistakes.

They ride around in the Impala and it's so relaxing that Sam falls asleep more than a few times without intention. Dean even teases him about it after a while, calling him a baby and a narco and grandpa, and Sam just smiles. Little by little, just as Dean promised, the pain eases up. Even after a month, there's still a lot of it left, but Sam finds he can function. They hunt, they deal with all this big scale bullshit, they eat and sleep and settle into a familiar rhythm.

The drinking isn't going anywhere anytime soon, though. They keep it to a minimum when they're working, and Sam drinks more than Dean but less than he did the first two weeks after getting his soul back. (Neither of them ever would've thought that possible before, Sam drinking more than Dean.)

It is during one of these late nights, after they finish a job and have a couple Serious Conversations (Crowley and Castiel respectively and Dean's not in the mood for bullshit from either side now), that the second change shows itself.

They're drunk. Sam, especially. They're both big men who can hold their liquor, so they've consumed a lot to get to this point. It's been another stressful week, and Sam hasn't been plastered since before they started their most recent case five days ago. Once he doesn't have business to distract himself with, the pain comes back into acute focus, and alcohol is the only thing that seems to help.

They're sitting on the floor in their motel room, in between the beds, Dean's back against his bed and Sam across from him against the other. Sam's so drunk, he has that fuzzy feeling-not a happy warmth but a disorientation-and if he moves, the room moves with him. Dean's got the bottle of whiskey they've been passing back and forth and on the floor next to Sam are empty beer bottles. The room's dark except for the light in the bathroom across from their beds. Sam has his eyes closed and his head resting back on his bed. Dean watches him.

"How bad is it now?" he says.

"What?" Sam says, not moving or looking at his brother.

"The pain or whatever. Haven't asked about it in a while."

Sam takes a heavy breath and sinks lower into his body.

"Not so bad when we work. Not as bad as it was. Still pretty bad when I got time to feel it though."

"Like now."

"Mm-hmm."

Dean draws on the whiskey. Sam is only partially aware of him, as his brain reaches for sleep.

"Where's it hurt?"

Sam shrugs.

"Not a bruise, Dean."

Dean thinks about how he felt all through his first year back from Hell. He wants to know what hurts inside his brother, wants to get at it like something he can kill, but he remembers how he felt and how he couldn't really put a name to it even if he'd wanted to, wouldn't have known where to begin explaining what he felt if he had been inclined to talk. He's also not so sure he wants to know what Sam remembers. Dean's own experience was bad enough-but having Satan piggyback your body and then slip into the bastard's cage still inside it? Soul in Hell for a year and a half? He's surprised his brother is still a walking, talking, lucid human being.

"Hey, Sam."

"Mm."

"You're not having second thoughts about this, right?"

"'bout what?"

"Us. Hunting."

It's one of those questions that Dean knows he shouldn't ask for his own sake, knows he won't like the answer (if he gets the truth), but he asks because even though he isn't anywhere near sober himself, he's still aware that the easiest time to get the truth out of Sam is when his brother's shitfaced. (Funny how they have that in common).

Sam sighs close-mouthed and half-asleep, eyes still shut and head still resting on the bed, arms limp at his sides.

"You said you wanted this. Doing it for you. Still think you're better off without me. Lisa... Ben..."

"Lisa dumped me, Sam."

"Could get her back... Say you're sorry..."

Dean shakes his head.

"They're not my family," he says. "Never were."

"Could be."

"Nah." He drinks. "Don't get me wrong, a lot of it was nice."

Sleeping in the same bed for a whole year. In a house that smelled clean and flowery instead of like stale food and sex and unwashed carpet. Not worrying about getting himself killed every week. Coming home covered in sweat and dust from the construction site instead of blood and guts. Weekends off and feeling himself get close to Ben. Waking up to the same woman every day and knowing she actually cared about him.

"But it wasn't everything."

And Sam smiles with half his mouth because he remembers Stanford and Jessica and their apartment and their friends and her chocolate chip cookies and the way she smelled and the way she looked when they fucked and the way she smiled in the morning with the sunlight coming in through the window behind her. He remembers being a college kid and how peaceful and normal it was and how he used to think that this was what it felt like to be happy and relaxed and safe.

He smiles because he remembers that even in the middle of all that, he knew it wasn't everything.

"Maybe if I'd been alive, you would've been okay with it," he says.

"I dunno," says Dean. "A year's one thing. A lifetime's another."

Sam thinks about his brother only ever having sex with one woman the rest of his life and playing golf on the weekends and doing that stupid thing with his shirts, tucking them in, and driving a pick-up truck instead of the Impala and working construction for twenty or thirty years and he wants to laugh. He remembers thinking, before he said yes to Lucifer, that Dean should have all that and a cherry on top. But now the absurdity of it sinks in.

"What are you smiling about?" Dean says.

Sam shakes his head a little. They go quiet for a moment. Then Dean says,

"Would you have stayed? If I'd known you were alive?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean-if I'd wanted to stay with Lisa, see how it might go, would you have stuck around with me?"

Sam snorts.

"No. Why the hell would I do that?"

Dean doesn't reply, takes another drink. Then:

"What would you have done?"

"Same thing I did. Hunted."

"Without me."

"If you want to stop, it's up to you, Dean."

But Dean knows that he can't stop as long as Sam won't. Even that week or two he spent with Lisa after finding out Sam was alive drove him crazy, like a dog with an itch he couldn't scratch. Wondering where Sam was, what he was doing, what he was hunting, if he had someone with him to watch his back. It had been kinda the same feeling he had back when Sam was in college, only worse-because at least with Sam in school, Dean could trust he was relatively safe (although the void Dean felt had been pretty intense). But Sam hunting without him? That was a different feeling entirely.

The truth is, phone calls will never be enough. You don't spend most of your thirty-one years of life sitting in a car with someone and sleeping in the same room and eating all your meals together without developing a serious attachment to their physical presence, to the tangibility of your relationship. It could never be the same if they were far apart. There's always something lost in long distance. Dean felt it during Sam's college years and he knows it'd be even worse now. He doesn't understand how other people do it-only seeing their family a couple times a year, on holidays and vacation.

Maybe some part of Dean had always wanted a "normal" life-but he'd never pictured it without Sam living next door. Hell, maybe even in the same house. His fantasies had never factored in him having to choose between Sam and normal. If he'd known it would come down to that, he would've given up the fantasy a long time ago. Honestly, was there ever a contest?

"I'm sorry I ruined it," says Sam. "Like always."

Sam's been thinking about this the last week or two, riding in the Impala or when he's alone doing research. He ran through all the major events of his and Dean's life together and mentally cataloged each and every time he'd fucked things up for Dean: getting Mom killed, leaving for college, failing to kill Yellow Eyes when the demon was in their Dad, getting them into that accident with the semi that led to Dad dying, dying himself in Cold Oak and sending Dean to Hell, failing to get Dean out of Hell, believing in Ruby, starting the Apocalypse, saying yes to Lucifer because he hadn't found any other way to stop him, coming back without a soul and ruining Dean's chance at happiness.

Sam's concluded that he is the biggest fuck-up in the history of the world, and he still can't understand why Dean won't let him commit suicide. Only reason Sam hasn't tried again is because he feels so compelled to do exactly as Dean tells him now, that even if he thinks Dean's out of his mind, he'll go along with him anyway.

Dean's staring at Sam now, a little more sober than he was before, incredulity on his face. Sam lifts his head up after a long stretch of silence and looks at Dean, takes a few blinks before he can recognize and process Dean's expression. If Sam were sober, he might cock his head to one side, wondering what the expression is supposed to mean. Instead, he just waits for Dean to say something.

Dean, meanwhile, isn't sure what to say. He got the answer he was looking for: that guilt of Sam's hasn't gone anywhere. What will it take to get it through Sam's head that he's what Dean wants?

But they're too drunk for this argument. So Dean doesn't start.

Instead, he sets the whiskey bottle down on the floor and pushes himself forward onto his knees, drunker than he'd thought he was while sitting still. He supports himself with both hands against the side of Sam's bed, stays still for a moment, breathing aloud. Sam just sort of glances at him, wondering what the hell his brother's doing.

"Too drunk for this," Dean says, and Sam doesn't understand the words. Dean sits back on his heels and looks at Sam in the dim light. And Sam meets his eyes, confused by all that emotion inside them.

"What?" he says, worried now that Dean's upset.

"I don't know how to get through to you. I don't know how to make you understand. Sam-"

Dean reaches out and presses his palm flat over Sam's heart, and Sam is so surprised that he doesn't react, just sits absolutely still and looks at the light from the bathroom gleaming in his brother's green eyes. Sam thought that after that ridiculous emo hugfest they had three weeks ago, he and Dean would go back to waiting until one of them was dying before touching each other so deliberately.

But everything has changed.

Dean's hand is firmly planted on Sam's chest, and they're locked in a kind of eye contact that reminds Sam of the way Castiel always looks at Dean. As if they can express the deepest sentiments of their being through this look alone.

"Promise me," says Dean, "That no matter what, we'll always be together."

"Dean?"

"Promise."

It comes out as a whisper, and the weight of Dean's hand on his chest is the most real and solid thing Sam's felt since he freaked out three weeks ago.

"What are you asking me?" he says.

Dean swallows, afraid despite all the alcohol in his blood. Afraid of being so vulnerable and afraid of sounding like a giant pussy and a little bit afraid he's making the wrong decision-but then he thinks about it and knows of course he isn't and that this is what he's been wanting to ask all his life-and afraid of what Sam will say, afraid of what no will feel like and afraid of what yes will mean.

But Sam's in pain. And that means Dean is too. All he wants is for his brother to feel right again, to stop wishing himself dead and stop feeling guilty for stupid reasons and stop binge drinking on the weekends. God, all Dean wants is for Sam to smile again without it looking like a lie.

"I'm asking... if you'll stay with me."

"I thought we already had this-"

"No. I mean... If you'll stay with me as a life thing. Not just hunting or, whatever. But if it can be you and me, even if we quit one day. Live in one place. Doesn't matter. I just want it to be with you."

He looks at Sam and Sam looks at him. Dean can't or won't touch all the real issues, the guilt and the time in Hell and the time out of Hell. It shouldn't matter anymore; it's in the past that Dean wants to move on from. He's grappling for reasons to be happy, for something to make him feel like his life can be more than just one long train of suffering.

Sam is baffled, his drunkenness not helping matters. He thinks he understands what Dean means, but he isn't entirely sure. The future? They never talk about the future, except in fleeting moments of vague hopes they never own outright. Why's Dean bringing this up now?

"Sam."

Dean can feel his brother's heart beating beneath his hand, and it's more connected he's felt to Sam than he has in a long time. Sam stares at him, unreadable expression on his face. He reaches up and curls his big paw of a hand over Dean's, and it makes Dean's breath hitch.

"Why do you think you have to ask? You still think I'll leave you?" Sam says.

"I dunno. I dunno what you want anymore, where your head's at. And we never-talk about it. What we'll do, just for ourselves. You shouldn't feel like you have to stay if you don't want to."

Sam breaks into an open-mouthed grin.

"Dean. You really that stupid? I'm not going anywhere. Hunting's my life; I know that now. You're the one who wants more. You could have more."

Dean closes his eyes, half shakes his head to one side.

"Yes or no, Sam."

Sam's hand is hot over Dean's and Sam's heart beats into Dean's palm and for a moment, that's all there is.

"If that's what'll make you happy," Sam says. "Then yes. I promise."

Dean opens his eyes again and sees the earnestness in Sam's face, so simple and gentle. He takes it in for a moment, soaking in Sam's answer; he pushes himself forward and sinks down next to his brother, head on Sam's shoulder and hand still clutched over Sam's heart. Sam leans his head against Dean's, and Dean begins to cry out of nowhere. Sam circles his arm around Dean and they are quiet for a while. Sam smiles softly in the dark, against his brother's hair, and Dean feels the biggest weight of his entire life slip away from his soul.

The truth is, all Dean's ever wanted was to know that he'd have a family, to not be alone. Dad and Sam were always enough, until Dean wasn't enough for them. Sam was what he wanted until Sam became a stranger and a traitor and all those terrible things Dean doesn't want to think about anymore. It isn't that he needs to be normal. It isn't that he needs a wife and kids. It's that Dean needs to be loved and to love, to have someone there as a constant.

And if Sam accepts, that's good enough for Dean. More than enough.

Sam doesn't know why but he suddenly feels better than he has in the last month since getting his soul back. He knows Dean didn't just ask him this as a way to distract him; he can sense his brother's sincerity, the way Dean's whole body loosens up against him now. He holds onto Dean and smiles and feels all right.

"Ash said we were soul mates," he says. "Remember?"

Dean doesn't answer, but he remembers. They had never talked about it, time never seemed right or they just didn't feel like brothers (much less soul mates) until right before Sam sacrificed himself. But Dean never forgot. He thought about those words the whole year he was with Lisa and Ben, as he believed Sam was in Hell. Sometimes he would look at Lisa and think that as much as he loved her, she wasn't the one... that the One was in the deepest part of Hell, all alone without him. Other times, Dean wondered what heaven was going to be like without Sam, if they were meant to share. He wondered how empty it would be. Was he supposed to spend eternity driving the Impala through heaven with no one in the seat next to him?

Sam smiles because he hadn't forgotten either. And when he thinks about it now, he knows the truth of this "soul mate" term intimately, knows that Dean is the only person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, knows he belongs with Dean. Sam guesses he could handle being alone well enough, much better than his brother, and that's exactly how he would live without Dean. But now that his brother's finally asked him to commit to their life together, Sam can look back on his life so far and know that, while he hadn't always known they were "soul mates" the way Dean knew in his core, over the last five years, Sam has come to see that truth. He'd been in love with Jessica, and if he was ever going to marry anyone, it would've been her. He can't see himself with any other woman and at this point, he's over the normal life thing. Saying yes to Dean feels like the most natural thing in the world.

They sit quietly embracing for a long time, silent on the floor, until Sam almost laughs and Dean asks why.

"Dude," Sam says. "You basically just proposed."

"You said yes."

"Are we wearing rings?"

Dean, head still resting on Sam's shoulder, says no more than, "Screw you."

Sam knows for certain that things will be different between them now.

And for once, that's a good thing.