Dearly Beloved

Dean leaned against certain vices when he was struggling. When his mood was dark, uncontrollable as a summer storm, and violence just wasn't cutting it, destroying his body in slow, poisonous increments was the crutch that he fell heavily on.

Now, standing on the balcony, Dean was desperate for solace in the hazy embrace of nicotine. Roman would kill him if he knew he was up here smoking –he thought he had quit sometime after the three of them had gotten big-but at this point, Dean really didn't care. He couldn't find it in him to feel guilty for going behind Roman's back with this. He wasn't looking forward to Roman coming back to the room to smell the smoke on Dean's clothes, but he needed to do this. Needed to get away from everything.

Dean dragged on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a shaky breath. If Roman was hurting the same way he was, he sure didn't show it. He was a cacophony of thoughts, hurt, guilt, confusion. While everyone thought that he was beyond forgiving his former brother and wanted to see him at nothing less than at his lowest, battered and bruised by his hands, Dean knew that wasn't the case. Deep down, some part of him had been waiting for Seth to apologize, to turn his back on the Authority and come back to the only two people in this company that had his back. Somewhere in the very back of his mind, a little part of him had hoped that Seth would come to his senses. Sometimes he forgot that they were at each other's throats all the time, that they hated each other, and offered him a small grin or found himself angered when he took a beating from the other superstars.

He hated that the most. He hated the day he found Seth backstage, the front of his shirt clenched in the huge fist of the Director of Operations. He shook him once, growling something vicious under his breath, ignoring Seth's hands scrabbling against his arms, trying to pull him off. Dean had interrupted, shoving Kane away, blocking him from Seth. 'Back off,' he'd warned him, eyes narrowed and dangerous. Kane had been confused, but simply snorted and stalked away, glaring once at the pair over his shoulder. When Dean turned back to Seth, it was like staring at a mirror image of his own expression. Pressed back against the wall, tugging at the collar of his shirt, Seth looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

'What are you doing?' he said, as though he couldn't quite wrap his head around what had just transpired. Dean called himself back to reality and assumed his normal air of nonchalance. He smirked. 'I think the words you're looking for are 'thank you',' he replied. Seth gawked at him. Then he shook his head. 'You hate me. You should've ignored us.'

'Nah,' Dean said, waving his hand. It's obvious he caught Seth off guard; he looks startled. 'Its just that I need you in shape for Money in the Bank. Can't have Kane messing up that pretty face before I take that title off your hands.' Seth looks like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to say or what to make of the man in front of him, but then blinks and shakes his head. When he looks back at Dean, he's scowling. 'And what makes you think I would let you?'

He glares at the smug grin and the shrug that Dean gives him. As he storms down the hallway, Dean hears him call over his shoulder, 'Leave me alone.'

There were moments when Seth had slipped too. It had raised Dean's hopes so high that once reality set in, it was like he'd just plummeted from cloud nine onto the unforgiving ground. Those moments hurt the worst. Dean tries not to think about it as he flicks ashes from the cigarette butt over the balcony, tries his damnedest to stave off the floor of memories that assault him now, but it's like the floodgates have opened in his mind.

It had been like old times. Dean was prone to singing to himself before matches while he waited for his cue to go out ever since his indie days. As a solo, he still sang, pumping himself up for his fight, but he had gotten used to the absence of another voice jumping in with him and the stage hands just ignoring him. Stretching his arms that night, he murmured the lyrics to some old rock song, trying his best to clear his head of anything that wasn't the drive to win tonight's match. Hardly anyone was around, but as he started on the chorus, his voice was suddenly joined by an all-too familiar one. To be honest, it had startled him. He nearly choked on his words, whirling around to see Seth standing off to the side, getting ready for his own entrance, singing along quietly.

When he felt eyes on him, he finally looked up from warming up his legs to find Dean staring at him. He offered an apologetic grin, looking sheepish and contrite. 'Sorry,' he said, 'force of habit.'

Back when they had been part of a team, Seth and Roman would jump in and sing with Dean if they knew the words. It gave them a sense of camaraderie before their matches, a reminder that they were all brothers, the three of them against all odds. It was sacred.

Seth had gone out first. Microphone in hand, he dragged Dean's name through the mud, venom dripping from his words and malice in his eyes, no trace of the friendliness he'd just seen a moment ago left in his brown eyes. By the time Dean had made his way into the ring, he was hurt, livid, and ready to draw blood from his former brother. How could he continue being so cruel after that moment they'd shared in the hallway? How could he abuse something that all three of them had held so close?

That night, they were both out for blood, and at the end of the match, they had both succeeded in getting what they came for.

Though it was bittersweet.

Dean gazes out at the skyline, watching as the smoke from his mouth drifts up and towards the stars that have just begun coming out in the night sky. He finished that cigarette and started a new one, the haze of nicotine just barely piercing through his muddled thoughts.

Hate was such a strong word. He didn't think it suited him right now, given the circumstances: grieving over his best friend. He'd begun calling Seth his 'former' anything after the split –former brother, former friend, former best friend, former teammate-but he realized now that that hadn't been true. He'd realized too late that Seth still meant something to him despite all they'd been through. All the good times and all the bad times had nothing on the amount of love he'd had for Seth, weighing heavily on his heart now. He thought he'd been through hell and back in the name of revenge on Seth betraying all of that, brushing all of that off for the promise of gold and glory. Now he knew that he had been fighting so hard not to avenge what used to be, but to get back what was. He'd wanted his brother back, not to make him suffer for the hell he'd put Dean and Roman through.

Too late, he'd realized it, and now he would never get him back. He'd lost him yet again, but this time, it was permanent.

He recalled the afternoon that had only been a few days ago with a shuddering breath. A pang shot through Dean's chest as the memory came rushing back, slamming the air out of his lungs and making him choke on the cigarette smoke.

Dean had parked in the arena lot, grabbing his gear bag from the trunk. It was almost four in the afternoon, hot as it wanted to be and dry as a bone. He was really only trying to get inside where the air conditioning would definitely offer some reprieve from the heat, maybe grab a bite to eat from catering and find a little enclave or something to take a power nap in. Hefting the bag out of the trunk and over his shoulder, he shut the trunk and turned towards the arena's private entrance.

'Scorcher, huh?' came a voice not too far behind. Seth was taking his time walking off to the side, a few steps away from Dean, carrying his own bag over his shoulder. Dean wasn't sure why he was talking to him, but he could see him smiling softly in the sunlight. 'See you're still painting your jeans on,' Dean shot back, nodding at the skinny jeans he wore. Seth grinned at him and pointed at his brown hair. 'See you're still looking like you just rolled out of bed,' replied the half-blonde. Against his better judgement, Dean smirked back at him, earning a quiet laugh from Seth. It seemed a lot like old times, the occasional quip and friendly banter. No hostility or tension in the air between them. And then Seth spoke again.

'There's a Taco Bell around the corner; wanna go grab a cold drink? Heard the Baja Blasts were back this summer,' he'd said. That made Dean stop in his tracks. He stood with his back to Seth for the longest time, his muscles tense and his voice suddenly low and dangerous.

'Seth,' he starts. He hears Seth's sneakers scuff on the pavement behind him as he comes to a stop behind him. He hears him sigh, silently taken by surprise at how tired he sounds. 'Look, I know we've got some bad blood between us,' Seth says, running a hand through his hair, 'but-'

'I'm not taking that chance again,' Dean cut him off. He turned to him, blue eyes like ice as they sliced into Seth. 'So many moments, man. So many little things that made me wonder, 'hey is he really trying to reconnect? Is he finally going to quit being such a selfish bastard?' And you get my hopes up, and then just like that you tear them down again. You were there in the hallway, singing with me. When Rome and I had that tag match with you and Kane, I forgot that you weren't on our side anymore; I tried to tag you in, man! I keep hoping and waiting you'll come around. It's ingrained in my psyche; I can't stop a force of habit.' Dean laughs humorlessly, almost manic. 'It's like you're doing this on purpose! Physically beating me down isn't enough, is it? You sick shit…you have to resort to mind games and fuck me up mentally too, don't you? You're lower than scum, and the day I beat you to an inch of your life will be the best fucking day of mine.'

He wasn't causing a scene; his voice was low and he wasn't throwing any punches. So why was there someone lurking around back in the private parking lot with them? Dean could see them moving over Seth's shoulder, standing about a step away from the edge of the parking lot's entrance. He thought they were raising their hand to wave or something, some eager fan looking for an autograph, but then a sound like thunder cracks through the air. Once, twice.

Seth is staring at Dean with wide eyes, one arm raised halfway to wrap around his middle, the other hand tightly clutching the front of Dean's shirt. Dean is confused, dazed and unsure of what happened, until Seth's legs fall out from under him.

Suddenly Dean's arms are full of Seth, staggering back to catch him and avoid dropping them both on the pavement. He can hear the person at the end of the parking lot yelling something as he lowers both himself and Seth onto the ground, and looks up once to see them running down the street. Security bursts out from the private entrance, tearing down the parking lot after the man, one staying behind to get the paramedics still inside the building.

It all happens so quickly; Dean doesn't know how long he sat there on his knees in the lot cradling Seth in his arms. His face is shocked, like he can't comprehend what just happened. The back of Seth's shirt is wet, the white material sopping with blood pulsing through the new openings in Seth's body. His blood is warm, covering Dean's hands and streaming down his arms. His eyes are closed, relaxed like sleep, and not screwed shut in pain like they had been only a few minutes ago. Dean panics when he swears he can't see him breathing.

'Seth,' he calls, as if he's trying to rouse him from sleep. 'Seth, wake up.'

The paramedics have arrived, rushing out of the arena with urgency. 'Seth,' Dean is still calling, his voice shaking dangerously, 'don't fuck with me, man. Wake up. I can't do these mind games anymore.' The paramedics startle him when they try to pull Seth from his arms. 'Sir, sir, we need you to let go! We need you to step aside,' one of them tell him in an oddly calm voice. Someone grabs his arm, someone else begins moving Seth, and Dean freaks the fuck out.

'Don't touch me!' he shrieked. He fought the hands on him with everything he had, like a caged animal, snarling and roaring at the top of his lungs. 'Seth! You selfish bastard, wake up! Don't do this again!' The tears are coming freely now, streaming down Dean's face, probably without him even realizing it. He thrashes wildly in the arms of the paramedics and leftover security guards trying to pull him away so the responders can do their work.

'Don't do this again!' Dean is screaming. 'Don't leave us again!'

All of the fight leaves him then, and he goes boneless, a sob cutting his screams short. His short brown hair hung in his eyes like dark vines, his shoulders shuddering violently with his labored breathing.

Too little, too late. They told him once he'd been calmed down enough to handle the information, once everyone knew about the incident in the parking lot, once Dean had gotten Seth's blood cleaned off of him, that the shooter had been apprehended. That piece of shit was twenty-nine years old, a huge fan of the S.H.I.E.L.D. before they'd broken up. Supposedly, he'd been seeking revenge for the split and had loathed Seth since the moment he took a steel chair to Dean and Roman in the middle of the ring. He claimed he'd done what he did for Dean. He'd killed his enemy. It was a huge favor, the guy had said.

It was a very good thing that he had been carted off by the city police after Dean had been dragged back into the arena; Dean was certain that he would've been the one going to jail that night, and the guy would be six feet under if it had been handled differently.

And Seth.

Dean had wrecked the catering tables when they told him about Seth. He'd knocked the food off the tables and flipped them over, threw them into walls and even out into the hallway. Everyone stayed far away from him after that, everyone except Roman, who was brave enough to step in, grab Dean by his shoulders and let him cry, the both of them huddled together in the middle of the floor.

All of that fighting, all of the heartache and anger at being betrayed had all been for nothing. In that moment curled against Roman's big frame, Dean knew then, that he wasn't mad at all. Not at Seth, at least. He hadn't been fighting him in the name of revenge. He had been fighting to get him back, the real Seth, his brother. And now he was gone, lost forever, because Dean couldn't realize it sooner.

Dean reaches up and brushes his jacket sleeve across his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd started crying. The memory had been so fresh; he could still hear the gunshots, still feel the blood slipping over his skin, the deadweight of Seth's once-warm body in his arms. When he'd seen it today, it was cold.

Dean didn't do funerals. He hated the gloominess of it all, the hollow feeling seeing someone you knew and loved for the last time. He hated the suits. He hated having to listen to the people who knew them best get up and say some words about them. Roman had had to be the one to do that. Dean couldn't even find it in himself to walk past the chapel's front doors. He'd only gone inside once everyone else had filed outside to walk to the cemetery and even then he couldn't bring himself to stay very long. It was unnerving to see Seth so still; he had always been so full of life, always moving around. Yet here he was in a box about to be buried under cold dirt much too soon. They buried him back in his hometown in Iowa. It was almost like the whole city of Davenport had come to pay their respects to one of their own.

Dragging heavily on the cigarette, Dean tried to swallow the sob he knew was trying to force its way through. Why wasn't the numb coming quicker? It seemed to take forever when he wanted it most.

He knew he and Seth had had their differences. He would be lying if he said he hadn't once entertained the idea of planting a fist in Seth's face once or twice; hell, they'd beat each other bloody on one occasion, not to mention the skirmishes backstage, and thee insults thrown back and forth like gunfire. He'd wanted to hurt Seth, yes, but only to get it into his head how much he had already hurt Dean and Roman. He'd never wanted anyone to die. He hadn't wanted the last thing he ever said to Seth to be something he could never take back.

'The day I beat you to an inch of your life will be the best fucking day of mine.'

He'd messed up. He'd messed up so badly, and he couldn't take it back.

Someone was knocking on the door back inside the hotel room. Dean shook his head, trying to steady his breathing, and finished his cigarette. He threw the spent smoke over the edge of the balcony, and briefly wondered if he could do the same and follow it down to the pavement.

Taking one last look at the skyline, he pushed off the balcony rail and disappeared.

. -8- .

. -8-.

Just something to get rid of the Shield angst, since I made the mistake of going back and watching some of the guy's old matches together. I miss them a lot and wish that they would be brothers again, slowly but surely earning each other's trust back. Maybe Brock Lesnar will be our saving grace and knock some sense into Seth in five weeks. The ending is left up to interpretation; take it however you like. Maybe Dean dies, maybe not. That's up to you. And, not to shamelessly plug my own work, but those who read Icarus will have to wait a little longer for an update. About a week, I'm hoping.

-AC