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“Holy shit, am I dating John Wick? What the hell!” Dean yelled at his boyfriend while he kept his gun trained on a beaten soldier sprawled on the bedroom floor. “Like what are we the Smith’s?” The actual truth of the statement finally wormed its way fully into Dean’s brain. “We are Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” Sitting on the bed his partner ran his hands over his face.
“Brad Pitt,” stated Dean.
“What?”
“Brad Pitt. I call Brad Pitt.”
“Fine Dean.” Gadreel rose to his full height. “I’m Angelina Jolie, and you’re Brad Pitt. Do you want to call your people, or mine about this? Because my people can burry this, make these guys disappear, but the best they could hope for is a shallow grave.”
“Nah, I’ll call mine. Guys were coming after me, anyway.” Without any hesitation Dean hands off his gun like he’s passing the salt. Grabs his cell from the night stand on his side of the bed and leaves. At the doorway Dean half stops to throw an, “I love you,” over his shoulder before leaving the room to make his call in somewhat privacy.
Gadreel is left holding a gun at the man on the floor.
He knew there was something, and he knew that Dean cared, but Dean’s Dean, and he’s never actually said those words out loud before. Gadreel fights the slight wistful pull at the corners of his mouth. It’s a losing battle.
If he only knew that as Dean surveyed the damage downstairs while on the phone he wore the biggest goofy, proud smile of his own over the five bruised, and bloody bodies beaten unconscious throughout the house.
His boyfriend did all that.
Given the nature of the call Dean seriously pissed off Frank on the other end of the line with how happy his tone of voice was. Dean couldn’t bring himself to care.