Well if the show isn’t gonna give me any Dean/Aaron then I guess I gotta write it my goddamn self
“I killed Hitler.”
“Dude, it’s like 2 in the mor–”
“I killed Hitler, dude.”
“OK. Fine. I’m awake.” There’s some shuffling on the line, the click of a lamp. “What the fuck are you saying to me?”
“Hitler came back for, like, five seconds, and I killed him. Shot him right between the eyes.” Dean tucks the phone against his ear so he can twist the cap off a beer. He sped all the way back to the bunker just so he could have this conversation without Sam next to him rolling his eyes.
“What happened to taking down the Thu–”
“Dude! Are you not hearing me?”
Aaron sighs into the receiver. “You really killed Hitler? The Hitler?”
“Well, he was in a different body but yeah. I fucking killed him.”
“You actually did it.”
“If you’re joking, I swear to–”
“I’m not joking!” Dean drops into a kitchen chair and downs half his beer. “You can ask Sam.”
The line goes quiet for a second. “I can’t believe this. You’re actually serious. You really did it.”
Some more shuffling. “I gotta go.”
“What? Aaron, what the fu–”
The line goes dead.
It’s been three days since Dean killed Hitler, and it’s been zero days since Dean’s mentioned that he killed Hitler. Sam is so sick of hearing about it over breakfast that he almost, almost put his earphones in this morning so he could drink his coffee at the kitchen table in peace.
Dean’s late getting up, which is rare. Sam is about to go check on him when he hears some doors shutting and some poignant yawning down the hall. As footsteps approach, he slides Dean’s mug to the edge of the table without taking his eyes off his computer screen.
“Coffee’s on,” Sam greets.
Sam’s attention snaps up real quick. “Um. Aaron. What.”
Aaron sheepishly grabs the mug off the table and guiltily scrunches his face up at Sam. “Yeah…” he says, holding out the “ah” sound for a solid 10 seconds.
“I thought you were in Ber–is that Dean’s robe?”
“Hmm? Oh. Um. Sure, yeah, I guess. I just grabbed it because I was…”
Dean slides into the kitchen then, his socks skidding across the linoleum before he bumps shoulder-first into Aaron. He’s wearing a red baseball shirt that’s so tight across his chest that Sam can practically hear the bias of the fabric screaming in pain. It barely covers his belly button.
“Hey, Sammy, guess what?”
“Dean, I really don’t–”
“I killed Hitler.” He bounces his eyebrows at Sam before turning toward Aaron and smacking his ass. “Who would’ve thought–” He wraps an arm around Aaron’s neck and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek, “–that’s all it took to get this guy in bed?”