|| AUTOPLAY ||

One individual shouldn’t have held so much over him. Not, not in the many years he’d learned to carve out his own place, hidden in his own cave. No, what Dean had done to him was turn him inside, break reservation and scream for more than redemption. The twisted poison being pumped into him daily, the eyes which struck a chord with him. He was caught; hooked and tugged along with crooked lips and sun kissed leather. The mechanic who’d saved his ass more than a few times was enough to have him too far deep.  He knew it wasn’t good for him to be around the guy. Hell, looks alone would tell him to stray, just head to the dorms, lock himself the confides of normalcy. Then again, he wasn’t one for that. Not when hands grasped at his shoulder, trust bleeding from the hold as he leaned into it. Dean had provided the home he’d never had, taken him in when the tears could be traced down his cheeks, reminded him to count backward from ten, that it wasn’t his fault, come on Sammy, sit down for a--  If God had been kind, he would’ve let Dean be his brother. Here, on the outskirts of Palo Alto, set up in his surrogate father’s garage as if it were his own. It was luck that he’d stumbled upon the establishment. He was in need of a miracle worker when he’d realized the engine had overheated. Dean had been kind enough to laugh off his panic, take him down to the lobby and talk him through the routine. It was later he’d noticed the scribbled cell number lingering on the header of the appointment card.  The days it’d taken to finally dial the number was baffling. The number of times Sam had to pep talk himself into simply canceling the appointment, murmur some reason of finding a different mechanic, ignore the warmth spreading against his chest as he watched Dean move about the shop. The reminder of blonde hair splayed against his sheets, green eyes staring back at him as he spoke of marriage, a promise they’d bind once he’d gotten on his feet.  Maybe his expectations exceeded reality. The note, a goodbye, bittersweet promises that It’s not you, it’s me bustling in his head.  Sam had no place to be  accepting the shelter of Dean’s help. Really, he should’ve run the other direction, seeing the apple pie life in greased hands, stained from car oil splatters and the smell of smoke wafted in the other’s hair. John had that same gleam of determination, showing Sam the ropes, the way to back away from the ricochet of a gun, the feeling of adrenaline being the only life line you had when it came down to the monsters and his throat. Dean had showed him how to relax in under ten seconds, how to keep his vintage hand me down in check, how to find a reason to smile when the beers were all gone and the moon and long settled above in their sky, the comfort of his car’s hood all that sufficed as they took silence in staring at the stars.  It was a simplistic gesture, one he’d replicated various times before, with less warmth, with less meaning than to feel contact between two people. This was security, feeling the lips dance against his skin, the warmth running over him as they’d grasped much more tightly for each other, as if the distance trailed for miles rather than breathes away. They’d met with darkened eyes, pliant against each, needing that wretched toss of feral want and pleading for release.  That was the first time. A repetitive cycle, one that became toxic to him as he crawl towards beckoning hands. His route was rewired to come to Dean after school every day, finding himself assisting with the other’s work, listening to the noisy babbling Dean offered when he returned to silence. Meeting his eyes as he handed him tools, the smile easily whiskey against his lips. It was nice to belong.  They’d long been adapted to each other’s schedule, to each other’s life. Sam being the first up, curled against the back of the elder. The smell of coffee wafting through their apartment enough to wrangle Dean from his slumber, the mumbled curses were evident in his standing. The feeling of those arms curled around his middle as he poured their cups, leaning against the warmth with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut to enjoy the moment a bit longer. It was nice to belong. Three years had been a while for them. At the least, the box stowed in his drawer was enough to prove that.