Part one of a super short little story that I'm posting the fill the void in between anything more substantial. Nothing but brotherly feels here. Will post every other day. Time wise it's set in the summer of 2013 when the Shield had a match between Christian and the Usos where Dean took the pin by eating a spear...the rest is all the result of my crazy brain!
Hope you like it!
Appendicitis
1
A spear.
Of all the god damn moves in the world, he'd been taken down by a spear.
By rights it was probably the one move in the wrestling world that he should have known to instinctively avoid, given that the powerhouse of their three man posse used it essentially every time they stepped out.
Dean had just assumed he would see that shit coming, or hear it or feel it or sense it somehow.
It was why the hit had caught him so unguarded as the full weight of fucking Christian had come in from his left hand side, the impact snapping his head back with a cracking noise and slamming his brain into the top of skull. The pain had exploded around his ribcage like a cluster bomb, flooding his ears with a shrieking white noise.
Something was wrong.
He knew that instinctively
He wasn't sure what but something was wrong.
It was the reason he had lain there – his battered head spinning – as above him Asshat Christian had hooked back his leg.
One, two, three.
Dean had barely felt the pin fall and when the crowd had cheered, they'd seemed a million miles off. He'd registered the mat bounce slightly underneath him and a familiar black pair of boots had stepped in close, but other than that those first few minutes had been spent drawing in his legs to try and contain the ache.
Because god it had ached.
Like a bitch.
Like a mutha.
Like a demolition crew was wreaking havoc on his insides.
When he had finally chanced a pain-filled gaze beyond his nose tip, it was to see his teammates staring glumly back at him, equal parts bewildered and pretty damn pissy.
"What the hell happened?" Roman was shouting above the crowd-noise, because suddenly that had come rushing back in style, not replacing but running alongside the whistling until his whole head had vibrated with an ocean of noise.
What the hell happened?
It was an interesting question, but it all boiled down to one striking fact.
The fact that Dean had been pinned by Christian.
The fact that Dean had lost them the match.
Honestly, it was a pretty bitter pill to gulp down and not just for him either, but for all three of them as a unit.
They had helped him from the ring as he had painfully rolled over – feeling his insides almost shifting as he did – but the movement had been completed in a furious silence and he could feel the disapproval rolling down from them in waves.
It hadn't mattered that he'd practically had to fold across the barricade and have them both push and pull him across, it hadn't mattered that he'd stumbled unsteadily down the hallway or sat in his ring gear while the two of them had changed.
His teammates were not interested with his writhing histrionics.
Roman and Seth were too damn pissed.
"Why weren't you watching him, huh?" Seth had needled, as he stripped his vest off over his head, "Why weren't you looking at what Christian was doing?"
Dean cradled his abdomen, swallowed and hummed mildly. If he had spoken there was a very real chance he would throw up and he didn't want, or need their latent pity.
Dean Ambrose had enough of his own.
So instead he had simply sat in stubborn silence, shaking very lightly and loosening his belt. If he could make it back to the safety of their hotel room, he could just sleep it off and then all would be well. He would be rested and back to full strength by the morning.
Then he would beat fucking Christian into the ground.
"A loss man," Roman groused as they had shuffled down the corridor, heading for their car after what felt like a year. Seth had grudgingly taken pity on his brother and was carrying his bag – Dean had been dragging it along the floor – but their larger teammate was still working on anger and frankly Dean didn't have the energy to fight back,
"Uh huh."
"Another loss. This time this one's on you man. I hope you know that. This one's all on you."
Dean had winced again,
"Uh huh."
In hindsight – which as always, was wonderfully unhelpful – Roman would realize how quiet Dean had been. Dean who could talk a dog down off a chuck wagon, Dean who sell the god damn Eskimos snow. Red flags had been flying like hummingbirds around them and yet he hadn't seen them.
Neither Roman nor Seth had.
The car ride too had been more than a little silent. Dean hadn't even been tapping out a tune. Instead he had turned and leant his head against the window, letting the biting cold draw his mind off his injured ribs. The dull ache had spread until his midriff felt warm inside.
That was hardly normal.
Sleep it off, just sleep it off.
When they'd hit their hotel room, Dean had made straight for the sofa, lowering face down onto it and burying his head into the folds. With his mouth pressed tightly down into the pillow, he could exhale bodily for the first time, stifling the moan of agony into the fabric and hoping his brothers hadn't heard.
"Dean, you alright man? You want some ice?"
He'd shaken his head in reply to Seth's question as Roman had growled quietly and stalked back and forth. A blanket had been deposited somewhat roughly on Dean's ass cheeks and he had groped for it blindly and pathetically given up. He wasn't entirely sure who had thrown it, but he knew for a fact it was Seth that flapped it out, still pissed off but at the very least still partly caring and Dean was ridiculously grateful for that,
"Sure I can't get you anything for the pain man?"
Dean shook his head and bit down hard,
"N-no."
Seth seemed to hang around beside him for a second, but then he sighed and threw his hands up in frustration at him,
"Fine."
By curling on his side and drawing his knees in, Dean soon realized he could be moderately snug. The pulsating pain seemed to dull ever so slightly and there was a chance – a vague chance – that he could actually get some rest.
In fact, for an unknown amount of time he even managed it. Or, at least, Dean assumed he did, since one minute the lights were on and Seth and Roman were moving round him and then suddenly it was dark and neither man was making a sound. As far as Dean was concerned he'd just blinked a little bit, but clearly a longer period of time had slipped past.
To be begin with he didn't even know why he had woken but then the pain came back to him, searing and strong.
"Ah, fuck – ,"
It hit him like a freight train that was towing another freight train and then possibly a heavy duty tank behind that. The dulled ache that had been throbbing at his midriff seemed to have intensified and zeroed itself in, setting up camp on the right hand side and sending jolts through his poor battered body like he was being freaking lanced by a knife.
A hot knife that was being fucking twisted.
Dean's head spun and his itchy skin was prickling as beads of sweat began to seep up, coating his body from every pore in existence and threading across his scalp until his whole head felt wet. The breath tore out of him in frantic hitched exhales and the assault made his brain swing.
Crap.
He was going to throw up.
Rolling off the sofa he landed fairly clumsily, groaning as the shift made the stabbing speed up. The bathroom was only a short stagger from his bedroll and he made it – just – by stumbling like a drunk. Somehow he even managed to quietly push the door shut and turn on the light, not wanting to wake his slumbering teammates up, but that was the last thing he did before his legs failed and he tumbled onto the floor and used the toilet seat to rest his head.
"Ugh, f-fuck."
The nausea hit in a split second later and he turned his head to empty it out, coughing and retching and still sweating fiercely until he was nothing but a hot and unpalatable mess.
Something was wrong.
Something was really fucking wrong with him, but he simply didn't have the strength to call out. Each time he tried the agony took hold of him and stole away his voice until all he could do was moan. Sucking in air became the primary focus.
That and trying to alleviate the pain.
As soon as the first wave of nausea had passed him, he curled up on the floor and went through the whole thing again, the heat still prickling across his whole body but actual shivers setting in as well.
Shock.
Shit.
That wasn't a good sign.
"R-R'man, S-S'th."
It was more of a whisper – pathetic, like he was – then swallowed by another wave. Dean's sweaty hands fumbled roughly on the toilet lid, fighting amongst themselves just to keep hold as he retched again, his dull blue eyes tearing as his body rebelled angrily. He didn't know how much longer he could honestly cope.
Surely it would be easier to just curl up and die there?
Kiss goodbye to his newly painful world.
In fact, he was actually considering those merits when the door creaked open and a voice called out,
"Dean?"
It was baffled and sleep-studded but so completely welcome that the invalid had to choke down an actual sob. A tall, broad figure was silhouetted in the doorway, squinting down at him,
"F-fuck, R-Roman."
