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Sam’s beat up, battered chevy Impala dies on a dusty Tuesday a few miles out of Stanford. Heat is blasting down on him, his skin already darkening as he stands outside the car, prodding at the open hood with little hope. He’s never had any interest in understanding what makes the car tick, so there’s little hope of him fixing it.
With a sigh, he remembers that there’s a garage a couple of miles away, so he locks the doors and sets off.
It’s a solid 45 minute walk to the garage he remembers, and by then he’s uncomfortably warm. Shoving his hand through his hair to try and make himself look presentable, he walks through the gap in between two cars in the forecourt, peering into the engines as he passes. Pushing open the office door, he finds himself in a small, humid reception, the desk empty and no other sign of life.
Feeling obnoxious, he pings the bell on the counter. The door through to the workshop slams open a couple of seconds later, revealing a man so beautiful that Sam is momentarily paralysed. He’s just a little shorter than Sam, but packed with significantly more muscle, which is highlighted by grease streaks down his bare arms. Freckles dust his fair skin, even spreading across lush lips; and his eyes are the kind of piercing green that before today Sam would have sworn couldn’t be real.
“What can I do for you?” The man asks, as Sam gapes. The man smirks at him, clearly aware of his own appeal. “Dude. What’s up?”
Shaking himself internally, Sam explains about the car and where he’d left it.“It's a beautiful car,” he insists, “But unfortunately I have no idea what to do with it.”
Sam could swear that the guy looks disappointed in him. “Guess we better go fetch it then,” he says, snatching his keys off a hook and gesturing for Sam to leave with him.
***
Once he’s settled into the tow truck, he finds out the beautiful man’s name: Dean. It suits him, Sam thinks; Dean carries an aura of simplicity and reliability that is incredibly attractive. Sam finds himself tongue-tied more often than not in the truck, Dean mostly keepinghis eyes on the road but shooting the occasional amused look towards Sam. He keeps up a steady stream of light conversation as well, detailing his life at the garage and how the team work together, and helpfully exempting Sam from having to hold a sensible conversation. He’s very good at the customer service side of his job, Sam realises, hoping that Dean is just as competent at actually fixing cars.
Sam’s 45 minute hike is over within 15 minutes in the car. They round the last corner and Dean swears.
“Fucking hell, is that your car?”
Sam’s a little shocked at the rapid changing from charming professional to profanity, but he goes with it.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he confirms.
“You have a car like that and you don’t know how to take care of it?” Dean sounds absolutely appalled, and as soon as the car has pulled to a halt he’s thrown the door open and jumped out. Rushing over to the car, he lays his hands gently on the hood and Sam would almost swear he’s talking to it.
Sam gets out of the truck more slowly, content to enjoy the back view of Dean. He’s mostly been dating girls since he started Stanford, but he appreciates both; and right now he’s thinking that it might be time to start exploring his options with men, or rather one man in particular.
Having apparently finished his communion with the car, Dean pops the hood and starts to look inside. Sam wanders over, watching as Dean pokes and prods around.
“Any idea what the problem is?” he asks.
“Yeah, pretty sure. It shouldn’t take long to sort. We’ll tow her back to the shop and should be an hour, tops.” Sam smiles, relieved. Even with his full ride, he’s not exactly rolling in money. “But you need to take better care of her.” His voice is abruptly stern, and Sam gulps as those green eyes are fixed firmly on his.
Sam can only think that he’s so mesmerized by how absolutely gorgeous Dean is, because he suddenly hears himself say, “I have no idea how. Perhaps I could bring her back one evening and you could give me a few lessons?”
Sam knows he’s not entirely bad looking, and he’s got a certain level of confidence, but this kind of direct come on is so unlike him that he almost chokes when he’s finished talking.
Dean straightens from where he’s still bent over the hood, and looks at Sam, those pretty green eyes intent. He takes a step towards Sam, who gulps, feeling like prey.
“You want pointers, huh?” Dean asks, voice low, and Sam shivers, caught.
“Yeah,” he breathes. Dean steps forwards again, until they’re standing so close their chests are brushing against each other. Sam’s breathing rapidly, pulse racing at the closeness, and he can tell Dean is too.
Dean leans in, brushing his lips gently against Sam’s as his hand cups the back of Sam’s head. He pulls back to nip at Sam’s mouth, teeth scraping across Sam’s lower lip in a way that makes him feel weak. Dean tugs softly at Sam’s hair as they kiss, sending sparks shooting down Sam’s spine. They only break apart when a passing car honks at them, and Sam can’t help but grin dopily at Dean.
“Bring her round on Sunday afternoon, and I’ll show you some pointers,” Dean says, sultry.
Sam feels his dimples pop out. “It’s a date,” he beams.