this isn't a reflection of any of the characters, and any knowledge i have of schizophrenia comes from dealing with my own schizophrenia. i wrote this months ago and its just now being posted, so enjoy.
"You can't use that as a crutch forever; you're gonna have to face it at some point, and you're lucky you're doing it with me!"
The sound of the door bouncing off the wall on its hinges punctuated the end of the argument. This conversation was over as far as Seth Rollins was concerned, and Dean knew better than to push his younger roommate even further. He knew the kid could only handle so much, already so stressed with where he had found himself in his young life, what with school and work and supporting his disabled best friend. Dean knew this.
But right now, this wasn't exactly Dean. Physically, he was still the same scruffy looking dirty blonde in desperate need of a shave and perhaps a good night's sleep, the same tall, boyishly handsome wild child that sometimes wandered around the apartment in nothing but his underwear. But mentally, emotionally, no. This was not exactly Dean.
Dean paced back and forth, growling in frustration under his breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he dropped down tiredly on his bed, holding his head in his hands as he tried to breathe.
Seth just didn't understand. It wasn't that Dean didn't want to get a job to help them pay rent like they so desperately needed him to do. It just wasn't as easy for him to get up and go out and work the register everyday like Seth did. He just couldn't have a normal day job and not spend at least in hour in the bathrooms trying not to freak out on everyone. It was hard enough living day to day with disembodied voices and hallucinations; if he had to put up with strangers every day for eight hours, he would probably end up murdering someone.
Seth worked at some little vegan smoothie shop downtown, usually picking up as many hours as he could after his classes ended at four o'clock every other afternoon, which usually equaled around twenty-five hours a work week. He never let on how stressed he actually was at the end of the day, tried not to show how tired he was when he walked by Dean on the couch every night, dropping his backpack and jacket by the kitchen door, tossing his name badge somewhere in the living room to find the next day, and yawning a hello as he went.
And Dean loved him for that, for never putting up a fuss or complaining. And he usually felt like shit when he was still sitting up late at night unable to sleep because the voice kept him up and he padded by Seth's room, poking his head in to find one of two sights: the most common, Seth sitting up, crosslegged on his bed with the lamp on, engrossed in his homework; or if he was lucky, passed out asleep, still in his clothes. Usually Dean would have to change him out of the day's work clothes –or at least get his shoes off- and pull the covers up over him. But he never blamed Dean, never made him feel as though there was something wrong with him. And Dean loved him for that, but this , right at this moment, was not exactly Dean.
This was something far worse, and he knew nothing of what Dean knew. He was angry and didn't understand the bigger picture, self-centered and pitying. Seth didn't understand the picture this not-Dean had painted for himself. He just didn't get how hard it was to function like a normal human being when you were certifiably crazy, when you couldn't keep the voices quiet and had to struggle not to strangle the next person who looked at you funny. And that just would not do. A little whisper in his head told him, he should be educated immediately.
Not-quite-Dean stood up from the bed and silently padded across the floor. Seth had relocated to their tiny kitchen –Dean could hear the refrigerator door slamming shut with much more force than required. Not-Dean found himself wondering briefly if Seth had gotten into his beer, even though he knew full well that Seth didn't drink, and the mere thought that maybe he had made his hazy mind brim with an angry buzz. He knew he was being unreasonable, but this wasn't quite Dean.
He slipped into the kitchen through the living room, treading on silent feet across the tile. Seth was standing at the counter, stirring something in one of his favorite mugs. Dean could smell it from the doorway: the lazy sweet scent of chamomile tea with a huge dose of honey and lemon. Seth had picked it up from the vegan shop he worked at after he learned that it helped to calm anxiety. Both of them used it for stress, though Dean usually needed it more than Seth. Part of Dean felt awful for being the reason Seth was currently downing a huge helping of the stuff, but this was not quite Dean.
As quietly as he had been moving, Seth still sighed, acknowledging that Dean's presence had been recognized. "I'm not really in the mood right now to keep arguing with you," comes Seth's tired voice. "Look, I just want to get something to drink and be alone. I've got homework I need to do."
Dean rounds the table, leans across the counter and walks his index and forefingers towards the knifeblock sitting by the toaster. He keeps his eyes on Seth, who doesn't even notice him as he focuses his attention on angrily stirring his tea like a madman. Some of it sloshes over the lip of the mug and splashes against the counter. Seth swears and turns his back to Dean to grab the towel thrown over the oven handle, and that's when Dean makes his move. The knife he grabs makes a grating sound against the wood as he drags it out and hefts it in his hand. It's heavier than he expected; it's a pleasant coincidence to find that he's chosen the largest one in the block.
He raises it, an arm's length away from brushing his fingertips against Seth's spine, and freezes. Seth turns around just then, eyes wide as he takes in the knife poised for his chest in Dean's hand.
"Shit!" he breathed, scrambling back. Dean advances, startling him further and into tripping over his feet. Seth's head smacks against the tile and he barely has a chance to recover before he frantically scrabbles backwards, hissing in tight panicked breaths. "Dean!" he calls, choking over the lump of cold fear in his throat. He makes a strangled, trapped noise when his back hits the wall and Dean's shadow looms over him, showing no signs of stopping. So this is it.
His best friend is going to kill him.
He's going to stab him to death in their kitchen, and even still, Seth finds himself worrying about how he's going to be able to turn in his economics homework tomorrow. At least his priorities are in order.
And suddenly, they're both jumping out of their skins at the loud banging on the living room door. Dean stops dead in his tracks, his arm hanging in the air and his brows knitting together tightly. Seth stares up at him with wide eyes, fear locking his limbs in place. The banging comes again, and Seth turns his head, watching it like his savior from this crazy person might come bursting into his apartment then. He looks back at Dean.
He's afraid to move, afraid that if he makes any sudden movements, Dean might jab the knife into him. Dean blinks owlishly. And Seth knows what's happening. "Dean," he breathes, chest heaving, "Dean, listen to me…" He ran a shaking hand through his hair and holds them up, palms out. "I'm your friend, remember? We live in a shitty apartment together, right? I'm the only voice you need to listen to right now. Don't listen to those other ones, Dean. They aren't real. Okay? I can help you, if you just listen to my voice, okay?"
Dean is panting, staring down at Seth with ice chip eyes. He gives a slight inclination of his head, a tiny nod, but not quite. More like an acknowledgement of someone speaking, whose voice it actually is, Seth isn't sure he recognizes.
"Okay…" Dean's voice is gruff when he speaks again. "Okay." He doesn't sound so certain of himself, but he tilts his head slightly, a furrow in his brow. He's shaking. "Did I scare you?"
He's met with silence, just a wide-eyed stare from Seth and the sound of heavy breathing. He sighs and takes a full step towards Seth, frowning when he flinches hard and presses himself flush against the wall. Dean sinks to his knees, his arms falling heavily at his sides. The knife blade makes a clinking sound like forks against a plate as it clatters against the kitchen tile.
Seth makes a small noise, tensing up as Dean wraps his arms around his shoulders. When he finally registers that he isn't being run through the back with a knife and that Dean is actually embracing him, he relaxes in his arms, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He reaches up and strokes Dean's hair with his hand, the other arm wrapping around his waist.
Dean is quiet the entire time. He thumps his forehead against the wall softly, grunting in frustration. Seth murmurs softly to him, soothing him as much as for himself. "We're okay, it's okay," he whispers over and over. The banging persists, but neither of them move. Dean even tightens his grasp on Seth, silently begging him not to leave.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles into Seth's shoulder, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
A breath passes before Seth manages a shaky grin and laughs softly. "It's alright," he says gently. "I'm fine; you don't have to apologize."
Dean knows what Seth is really trying to tell him: that it's okay, it's not the first time that this has happened. It's the second, and it scared Seth stiff knowing that this was the second time that his best friend had tried to kill him. Not intentionally, of course –he'd never purposefully hurt Seth. Dean had explained himself after the first incident, confessed to Seth that he'd been told to do it. The voices he heard in his head were dangerous, he'd said. They told him to hurt himself sometimes, to hurt those around him. It was maddening, but Seth had stayed by his side the entire time. He put up with the worst of Dean better than he did the best.
He had been right. He was lucky to have Seth by his side.
Still…
Dean didn't see how Seth could fall asleep so quickly and so easily after a night like he'd just had, but he was grateful for it all the same. He sighed softly as he leaned against the doorjamb, watching the lump under the sheets in Seth's room. He honestly didn't know how Seth put up with him, why he hadn't moved out yet or at least reported Dean to the police or a mental institution. He could barely put up with himself, always feeling like an all-around awful friend and generally shitty human being. He drank and smoked and swore and did everything that Seth, who had been raised Catholic, had been taught to avoid. He had been in more fights than most boxers and wrestlers, and he was barely old enough to drink legally. He was the worst -or best, depending on how you chose- thief you'd ever have the misfortune to meet, and even more so at lying. Sometimes he himself couldn't tell if he was actually telling the truth.
He was a trainwreck, alright. And Seth was…not. He was a year younger, juggling college and work, with three years of work towards a degree in communications, all while supporting both himself and his mentally ill friend with no job and even less of a college education.
That was the fight. They'd been arguing again, really arguing with loud voices and violent hand gestures, because Dean had come back from what was supposed to have been a trip to the grocery store to restock the fridge with a carton of eggs and milk, a loaf of bread and a case of beer. What little money that had gone towards beer had actually been meant for what little fresh vegetables and fruits they could afford to purchase, and that was why Seth had been so mad at Dean.
The thing about Seth was that he hated it when people pretended that mental disabilities automatically meant invalid. He hated it more when Dean pretended.
"You're schizophrenic, not retarded," Seth had told him. "There is literally no reason for you to not have a job. I know you have your bad days, but do you really think that wrecking yourself with alcohol is gonna make those bad days easier? You're just breaking yourself down with this stuff!"
That hadn't set well with Dean, but stubborn as he was, Seth could match him. "We don't have money to keep feeding it towards beer and cigarettes. When you scrape up some extra dough, then fine, by all means: spend it on whatever. But I'm just saying that right now, while I'm the only one bringing anything in-"
"Oh, wow. You're really gonna blame me for how fucking broke we are? I would help out, you know I would, but I don't really feel like beating someone to death just because the voices told me to," had been Dean's retaliation. He'd hated that exasperated look Seth had given him, slapping a hand over his eyes and sighing. It was that excuse again. He was stressed, Dean saw it clearly in that moment. But he was overwhelmed too, and maybe that was when the little voices in the back of his head began whispering their venom.
He could've killed his best friend tonight, and all because he'd taken the little whisper's advice.
Dean sighed again and pushed off the doorjamb. "Fuckin' hell," he murmured. He needed a drink. He turned in the direction of the kitchen and shuffled tiredly across the floor. Sometimes he really made himself sick. He headed straight for the refrigerator, not bothering to turn on the kitchen light, and opened it up, standing in the bluish glow of the tiny bulb. The unopened case stared back at him as he stood there, suddenly uninterested in the cans inside as the earlier argument began ringing in his ears.
Maybe he'd just take a walk instead. He needed to clear his head anyway, and maybe the cool night air would do him some good.
Grabbing jacket from the little coat hangers by the door, he locked the front door behind him and jogged down the stairs. He guessed the knocking from before had been the neighbors coming to check in on them; they had been shouting at each other pretty loudly after all. He didn't really know the neighbors all that well to be honest. That was Seth's area of expertise. He was the type that knew the names of neighbors and remembered friend's birthdays and was always in the know of some neat, new, off-the-radar restaurant or bar to hang out at. The complete opposite of Dean, who, honestly, barely remembered Seth's birthday even after spending it with him for almost thirteen years and hadn't even known the names of the neighbors he'd grown up next to as a kid.
The air was cool enough to walk without Dean needing to zip the jacket up, and it was really a nice night out, but he wasn't really concentrating on it. Times like these, there was an itch Dean needed to scratch. It always came on the tail end of an episode in his head, the resentful, angry feeling directed towards himself and everyone else in the whole damn world; the itch for the satisfaction of feeling skin break under his knuckles. To feel blood splash across his own flesh, the grunts and cracks of bones fracturing and breaking, all the sights and sounds and smells of a good old-fashioned bare-knuckle beating.
Dean was a scrapper for sure, but it wasn't exactly like he just ran around prowling the streets for assholes to beat up. Usually the fights he got into were spurred on by drunken bar brawls or some snide comment someone though they could get away with. Like, fuck 'em, man -anyone who had a reason to be rude had a reason to be punched, that was Dean's philosophy. And right now, the itch needed desperate scratching, something fierce. Dean thought about crashing a bar and finding some poor, drunk bastard to fight, but that was usually a risky gambit because the guy could pull a knife or a gun and of course the bartender would call the cops. Dean didn't think Seth would be too happy about having to come bail his ass out of jail.
He'd punched a tree once, unable to find a bar to start a brawl in. Broke his hand in two places and got a slap upside his head from Seth. Of course, there was always the bad part of town.
Being a college city, there was always a spot that warranted illegal activities, simply because college students attracted that kind of things like flies to honey. Dean was fairly certain he could find something down there to put his mind at ease and if not, there was always a way to create one.
Actually, once Dean though about it, a name began to take form through the fog of his memory. Once or twice at a bar, he'd heard some guys mentioning some place or something called the Devil's Handbag. Dean had no idea what that was and hadn't asked the guys at the time, but given the tough name and the hushed murmurs in which it had been spoken of, it sounded like his kind of time. He was pretty sure if he asked around, someone would be able to tell him exactly what it was.
So for now, he would look for the Devil's Handbag; seemed like as good an idea as any to get his mind off of things. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and hummed a tuneless song under his breath as he walked the dimly lit sidewalk, wondering what he would find. Whatever it was, he was sure it would be interesting.
Dean goes back to the bar.
When he walks in, he's greeted by the scent of hops and sweat and salted peanuts; the usual mystery sticky stuff on the floor coating the bottom of his shoes and the thump of a bass heavy song playing on the speakers. Ah, Motorhead, the perfect band for a down and dirty brawl in the back of a barroom.
Last call is in two hours, so Dean takes his time, orders a shot of straight Jack on the rocks and seats himself at a table in the back. He doesn't really want to talk or be talked to by anyone unless it concerns the whereabouts and whatsits of the elusive Devil's Handbag. He further punctuates this by giving the unlucky patrons who wander too closely to his table with a death glare packed with enough venom to kill a small animal. Everyone avoids him, even the waitress, who drops his order at his table and then hurries away without so much as a flirty wink or a sultry 'enjoy'.
Dean lies in wait for nearly the whole of an hour before he finally hears some mention of the Handbag. It's two college boys standing around at the end of the bar nearby, sipping from bottles of Budweiser, who drop the name in hushed voices. They look as shady as convicts, glancing around the bar and waving the bartender away until they're ready for another drink, but Dean can hear them somewhat clearly, even over the loud thumping overtones of an R.E.O. Speedwagon tune. So as not to raise suspicion, Dean turns his head the other way and pretends to be a drunkard nursing a buzz while he listens to snippets of their conversation.
"…bet money on the Lion and won it all back in five minutes…knocked that kid the fuck out in a few minutes flat!" says one. He has a bit of an accent and is a bit on the small side. The next one sounds a bit older and has an annoying voice. "Eh, that kid was full of himself…no wonder he lost…supposed to be… next Friday…already dropped a hundred grand on the guy."
"What about tonight? It's the new kids' turn…gonna get slaughtered."
Dean decides he's heard enough and pushes himself away from the table. He approaches from the back of the annoying blonde one and settles on the bar behind him, making himself look as though he'd been standing there the whole time. Then he clears his throat.
"So," he announces loudly, grabbing both men's attention, "you boys headed to the Handbag tonight?"
Both of them look suspicious. The blonde one raises an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?" he asks innocently. Dean smirks. "You can drop the ignorant act. I'm talking about the Devil's Handbag. Y'know it?"
The smallish one slowly cracks a grin. "Huh. Who are you? I've never seen you around."
Dean shrugs. "Just a guy lookin' for a good time. So what is it, some kinda boxing ring? Probably illegal, right?"
The blonde turns to face Dean fully, leaning his elbows back on the bar counter, bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He sticks his tongue in his cheek and regards him for a moment, then replies, "Fight club. Underground. Biggest organized club in the city."
"You curious?" pipes up the accent kid. He has a natural devious look about him, like an imp. "Might be," Dean answers. "Point me in the right direction and I might just become a fan."
The blonde shakes his head. "Usually you get in by invite. Don't just want anyone walkin' up into the ring. If you don't get an invite, then you don't get in. Sorry, man; failsafe. Can't have the cops sniffing the whole place out…don't think my folks would be too happy if they found out I got arrested instead of graduating."
"What's it take to get an invite?" asks Dean. He's really intrigued now. It may be dangerous, an underground fight club, but really, who cares? As long as Dean gets to break someone's nose, he can outrun the cops if the time calls for it. He's had plenty of practice.
The blonde grins. "Knowing the right people. You look like a brawler," he says thoughtfully, looking Dean up and down with the careful scrutiny of a regular fighter. Dean is sure he does, what with the perpetually scraped knuckles and calloused hands and all-around wild look in his eye. "What's your name?"
"Call me Dean. How 'bout you, goldilocks?"
For the first time since the conversation started, the blonde shows some hostility and glares at him. Dean only smirks in response. Must've struck a nerve.
"Call me Dolph. That's Adrian," says the blonde, gesturing to the smallish kid. He smirks and gives Dean a two fingered salute that Dean nods in return to. "Y'know, we could probably get into a lot of shit for letting you in on the Handbag. If you show up and get your block knocked off and end up in the hospital, there's always a chance that people'll pry, and if that happens, you and me and innocent little Adrian over here are gonna have hell to pay."
Adrian glares sidelong at his friend, probably about the whole 'innocent' jape, and says, "But I wouldn't worry too much. You look like you've knocked a bloke or two out before. Might not win you any real fights; you're kinda little, but…"
Dean's intense blue eyes suddenly bore into Adrian, and the dark-haired Brit knows he's pushed the wrong button. "Look who's talking," Dean sneers, "how about we step out 'round back and you can watch me win a 'real fight' through the black eye I give you."
Instead of backing down, Adrian's eyes widen and he snorts, smiling into his beer bottle. "Rowdy. They'll like that. Look, if you can throw a punch and block one better, you'll be fine. I know I'm not supposed to, and Dolph don't you dare rat me out, but I have an invite in my wallet with me. Little frayed and rubbish-looking, but it'll get you where you need to be…." He levels a gaze at Dean that he can only describe as the gaze of ultimate destiny, or some cosmic, life-changing bullshit like that. If he accepts, there is no turning back, "If you're up to it."
Dean smirks, the picture of giddiness. "Hell yeah."
"Here you go."
The 'invite' that Adrian gives him is a tiny slip of paper, like a gum wrapper or a fortune from a Chinese takeout cookie, with a handwritten address scrawled across it. It's yellow around the edges and crumpled up, but readable nonetheless.
"That should get you in," Adrian says with a small grin. "Tonight's fight night; you might oughta go. Newbies tend to be asked not to put off their first nights, and we prefer it that way. Gives 'em a chance to decide whether or not they really want to be there or not."
Dean stares at the address in the dim light of the streetlamp. "How far is it?"
Dolph looks down the street. "Not far. About a ten minute drive from here. Fifteen if you're walking, which I'm guessing you are. I'd ask if you wanted a ride, but we came in Adrian's ride and it only seats two."
Dean waves him off. "I got it. Know the place when I see it?"
"On fight night, yeah. Looks like a blacklight rave. Can't miss it if you at least know the address you're looking for."
"Right. Guess I'll see you there," says Dean, and without even waiting for a goodbye, he turns and heads down the street in the direction Dolph had pointed out to him.
The warmth of the Jack Daniels had worn off by the time Dean made it to the location. He finds himself standing in front of an old building that he actually remembers from when it used to be a little neighborhood supermarket. There are no cars or trucks parked outside of it in the lot, no, that would be too obvious. Everyone else probably parked someplace more conspicuous and legged it to the Handbag on foot. There's no one standing around outside either –weird, Dean was expecting a bouncer or something, not just free entry, but hey, he wasn't complaining. It seemed like the Handbag's advocates were more worried about not being found out by the cops than they were just anybody busting inside.
The front doors have been spray painted black and are locked tight, so Dean goes around to the back by the loading dock. Sure enough, one of the blue garage doors is raised up halfway, one sole heatlamp turned on to illuminate the way inside. Dean climbs up the dock and lets himself inside, recognizing the dull, heavy pounding of some heavy metal music coming from deeper inside the building. He wonders where the fighting takes place exactly. In the old breakroom? The showfloor?
He follows the sound of people's voices out of the storage room and into the main part of the store. There, the noise bursts into perspective, the floor full of people buzzing back and forth between each other. One of the overhead lights have been turned on, just enough to see the makeshift ring below. The ring itself was really a heavy black rubber mat weighed down by four sandbags at each corner. Around it gathered the crowd, a raucous looking gang of seedy guys and even a few girls. Currently, there was a petite woman standing in the ring, making the universal hand gesture for the crowd to makes some noise.
"Alright!" she shouts, one hand on her hip, "who's ready to have a bloody good time?"
Roars like a zoo full of animals rose up from the crowd, fists beating against chest and hands clapping loudly together. Dean pushes through all of this to see her better. It's a wonder anyone can hear her with her lack of microphone, but her voice is still the loudest and clearest in the bunch. She smirks at the crowd. "I don't think you heard me! Maybe, we should call this whole thing off?"
The uproar was deafening. "Don't tease us, April!" called one of the guys next to Dean. "Come on!"
"Then lemme hear you scream!" April shouts, thrusting her fist into the air. Cries go up like wolf howls. The hype girl grins and settles the crowd. "Alright then! That's what I like to hear! So without further ado, I give you our main event of the evening." She swings her arm to her left.
"On my left, please give a rousing round of applause to the bareknuckle brawler, the British bulldog, your King of the Devil's Handbag," she shouts, pausing for effect, "Wade Barrett!"
The crowd parts like a scar for a tall man making his way through towards the ring. He receives a smatter of positive cheers, a terrible uprising of boos drowning them out. He has an arrogant swagger to his step and a smirk even more so. Dean grins, bouncing on the heels of his feet. He looks like his kind of scrapper.
The Barrett guy pumps his fists in the air, flipping the crowd off and roaring like a beast. Dean feels the itch becoming near unbearable and that guy would be perfect to scratch it; he probably bleeds like a waterfall in an oasis. The voices are chiming now. Fight him, they say, hurt him. Kill that fucking fool.
"And now, on my right! The powerhouse, the alpha, the big dog himself," April continues, obviously favoring this guy more, "give it up for Roman Reigns!"
Ah. If the Wade guy was big, then Reigns was huge. He was built like a tank, or a tower, or maybe a brick wall. Long, black hair frame steel grey eyes that sweep over the crowd as he enters the ring, garnering much more praise from the rowdy onlookers than Wade.
The voices in Dean's head quiet considerably as Dean scrutinizes the huge man. Wade, yeah, he could take him without breaking a sweat. But Reigns? Let's just say that Dean liked a challenge. The moment Roman enters the ring, Wade is on him, pounding his fists against his body in loud, resonating blows. April scurries out of the line of fire and disappears into the crowd, grinning and whooping along with the best of them. Roman shoves Wade off of him, sending him crashing, staggering back on the mat. He nearly falls back into the crowd, but he quickly catches himself, just in time for Roman to gore him with a vicious spear that sends him sprawling on his back.
Dean and the rest of the crowd wince, a chorus of 'ooh's' rising up from the crowd at the sound of skin slapping against the hard floor.
"You new meat?"
Dean looks down at the new voice. It's April, the announcer girl. She smiles up at him excitedly in her cutoff ref's shirt and shorts. "Yeah, you," she says, bumping Dean's arm. Dean smirks. "Yeah, guess you could say that."
April clicks her tongue. "Uh-oh, that's not good. The new meat always goes to the dogs."
Dean raises an eyebrow and looks back at the ring, where Roman expertly sidesteps a lethal swing from Barrett and cracks his knuckles across the Brit's jaw. He grins, the fuzzy static of excitement buzzing in his head. "Sounds like fun."
April giggles. "That's what they all say. You register yet? Let's go grab a drink; I'll explain the basics. You get an invite?"
"Yeah," Dean says, turning to follow her as she weaves through the crowd. "Adrian gave it to me. Name's Dean. And who are you?"
"April. Friends call me AJ," she says. "I'm the ring announcer." AJ leads him to the front desk of an old pharmacy. Some party lights spin around on the counter, throwing colors off of every surface. From the beer bottles that lined the top of it and the people standing around with soda cans and solo cups nearby, Dean guessed this was the bar. A woman with hair that reminded Dean of Seth stood behind the table, a lockbox resting on top of a cooler behind her. When April approached, she grinned and leaned forward on her hands. "Yo, Ape! Looking for something to drink?"
"Yeah, two cokes if you've got them, Kait," replies April. She gestures to the woman as she leaves to sort through one of the other coolers behind the counter. "That's Kaitlyn. She's the bartender here. All proceeds from the bar go towards the upkeep of the Handbag."
"Who do I give the invite to?" Dean asks.
"You need to go find the Kid," says April, winking at Kaitlyn as she returns with two cans. Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Jeez, does everyone have nicknames here?"
April grins. "Pretty much. He's probably in the old pharmacist's office if he isn't out here watching the fight."
"When do I get a nickname?" Dean asks as he leans on the bar, open coke in hand. The fight is still raging on behind him and he cranes his neck trying to see it. April laughs next to him. "You gotta earn your nickname, guy. You don't just get one."
"You got one?"
"I might. But that's the way things work around here. Simple rundown of Handbag basics: you fight each week, try not to kill the other guy, and if you win, you get credibility and maybe bonuses of the monetary persuasion. Depends on how good your fight is." April explains as she walks and talks. Dean's ears perk at the mention of money.
"How much money are we talking here?"
April shrugs. "Depends. If your fight is garbage and you end up winning, you might only get fifty cents. I've seen a guy get a can of soup as prize money before. Usually most the money that circulates between fighters and the audience is bet money. Fighters always get a percentage of the bet money. If you really impress, you get that and a little extra from the boss."
A little further down from the bar, April points at a white door with only one window.
"You see that white door? You'll find the Kid past that," says April. She pats his arm and then glances back towards the mat, where a loud cheer rises up from the crowd. "Well, that looks like my cue. Good luck, guy." Without waiting for a goodbye, she skips back to the gathering, only pausing to turn back and shout, "Oh, hey! I forgot: don't be stupid and say something you'll regret! I'd hate to have to watch 'em take you outta here on a stretcher!"
She's way too gleeful. Dean ignores her eerie cheer and watches as she skips away, hair swinging like a flag down her back. He continues the rest of the way to the old pharmacist's office, just catching the very beginning of April's announcement.
"Oh, and it looks like we've got another round on our hands! The first round of this match is up and neither of our competitors look ready to give it up yet! Who's ready for a good time?"
Dean has no idea who is winning, and as he knocks on the office door and a gruff voice calls, "C'mon in,' the noise just seems to stop. He closes the door and the world goes silent.
Heels kicked up on his desk, a blonde man in blue jeans and boots is there to greet Dean, sucker stuck in one side of his mouth and long blonde hair pulled back on his head. He doesn't look like the kind of guy who warrants a high enough position of power for an office, but he doesn't quite look as rough and tumble as some of the other patrons out there either. He glances up from the papers he's reading and breaks out in a wide smile.
"Well, who the hell are you?" he says. Dean isn't quite sure how to take this guy. No one's ever asked him that kind of question with a grin and no intent to punch him in the nose. "Fresh meat?"
"Name's Dean," he replies, and is honestly kind of irked at how he's being referred to as fresh meat, like everyone assumes that he wouldn't last a minute in this kind of setting. He wants so desperately to prove them all wrong. And he will, he tells himself. He just has to avoid fucking up this interview or whatever it was supposed to be. "I'm here to kick ass and take names."
The blonde man smirks, nodding his head. "Cocky kid," he muses. "Interesting. We like those kinds here. They put on the best shows their first nights, y'know –fighting with all they've got but they don't know shit- get a black eye and a bruised ego and then they never show up again. You think you're any different?"
Dean's eye twitches. "Unlike them, I can back it up every time. Wanna try me on?"
The man throws back his head and laughs, hearty and loud. "You're gonna be a fucking riot! Tell you what," he drops his legs from the table, and sits up straight in his chair before deciding to stand, "I'll take that bet. They call me the Kid. You got yourself a fight, kid; don't worry about your opponent, I'll send someone to let you know later." He waves the thought off with his hand and then shakes his head.
"I'll just shoehorn you in after Barrett and Reigns' match. If you can manage, by some grace of God, to hold your own and knock the other guy out, I'll let you stay. That's the rules here: you gotta fight if you wanna stay. If you lose, though, I'll kick your ass outta here so fast you get whiplash, got it?"
Dean grins like a devil. "Got it."