After a long night of drinking dean and roman soon make it back back to dean's please roman sits down on the sofa
Dean starts walking away from Roman, down some corridor, but he stops before he leaves Roman's line of vision, looks at Roman from over his shoulder. "I haven't shown you my new toy yet, have I?"
New toy?
Some still-sober part of Roman recognizes that he should find this entirely unsettling.
But the rest of him can't catch up to that right now. He's warm and relaxed and as curious as he is skeptical. He signals the negative, and Dean smirks at him briefly before leaving the room.
There's the sound of dials turning and doors opening and doors closing too loudly and Christ, can't Dean do anything
In the bustle, in this Dean-less wait, Roman looks at the bottle in consideration.
What Dean strides out holding makes Roman glad that he did not have a mouthful of whiskey right now. He surely would have spit it out.
"Who the fuck let you get a gun?" And Roman winces even as the words leave his mouth; he's been hanging out with Seth and Dean for far too long.
But really, language should be the last thing he's concerned with.
And why is he more exasperated than he is startled?
Roman sighs. "Dean...you need to get rid of that. If someone catches you with that...."
"Relax...." Dean drawls, twirling the gun around one finger with some thoughtless nimbleness. Roman holds his breath. "I own this baby legally." He starts walking strutting toward Roman. "And breathe it's not loaded."
Roman breathes out, runs a hand through his hair, watches with some lazy rapture as Dean steps closer to him. Dean presses a foot to the side of the coffee table, carelessly kicks it across the carpet but more importantly out of the way
Roman looks up at Dean, an elbow on either knee. Roman lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. "I didn't know Nevada's gun laws were that lax."
Dean chuckles. "They're not. " And that devious grin again. "But Utah's are."
Roman laughs again, and this time he finds it truly humorous.
And dear God, he really shouldn't. The last person in the world who should have a gun is Dean
But this is just so typically Ambrose; Roman can't help but feel some demented warmth blossom over his heart. "So you own this legally. In Utah."
Dean smiles a small smile, just lips It could be a foreboding expression, but there's something benign in Dean's eyes, something fond.
Dean leans down to a crouch in front of Roman, rests his elbows on his own knees Roman's not sure if this mimicry is intentional or not Dean licks his lips, shrugs one shoulder. "Technicalities."
Dean gives the gun one final spin; it lands in his open palm. He looks up at Roman, unblinking, all charm and blue eyes and dark blond eyelashes. "You can touch it if you want."
Roman raises an eyebrow at Dean, hears a million different interpretations in his head. Dean raises an eyebrow right back at him. He looks down at the gun in his hands, gestures to it with his eyes, holds out his hand in offering.
Roman's eyes are drawn to the gun to the shape of Dean's hand underneath it Roman doesn't know much about guns, but he knows it's a revolver. It's a dark grey, antique and vintage looking. The barrel is long longer than what he's seen on most revolvers and thin. There's no grip padding, just metal smooth and cool as he runs the pads of his fingers over the expanse
