Something Breaks

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Post Royal Rumble 2014:

The agitation had started to subside, but not by much. Still dressed in his ring gear, Dean Ambrose stalked the halls purposefully. Wrestlers and crew alike ducked out of his way and avoided eye contact. He knew why; he was on edge. His eyes flashed dangerously and he twitched and muttered an assortment of s. In any other scenario, he would have come across as psychotic. Here he was simply Dean Ambrose, psychotic wrestler. It wasn't particularly comforting.

Everything was up in the air. The pay per view had not gone over as well as senior management were hoping. As a result, most people were running around like nervous chickens. In addition, the break-up of the Shield was imminent. Even though it was scripted, Roman's betrayal still stung and left a bad taste in his mouth, or maybe that was the seven or eight cigarettes he had chain smoked after his elimination. He was unsettled, he was looking for trouble; he needed something to take the edge off. He needed something to break him and restore what passed for his inner balance. For a brief shining moment, he considered going to Seth, but that wasn't enough. Seth wasn't a dom. He wasn't in between the roles; he was a natural born sub and that just wouldn't cut it. Not to mention he was supposed to be involved with Orton. That could get messy. Plus, it had been a couple of years, back in NXT. Here it could make things complicated.

Finally coming down an abandoned hallway, Dean turned and punched the wall, kicking his black boots against it the cold tiles and growling in frustration. He could go get drunk, he could go on the self-destruct. Win win scenario after all. He needed something…. He needed-

Who was he kidding? He knew exactly what it was and didn't want to admit it. He wanted to be fucked. He wanted pounded through the floor and pushed to his limits and then pushed just a little more. He could switch roles easily enough but now wasn't the time. He needed the discipline, he needed to be put back in his place. But to have the experience he craved, he had to be sober.

That was the condition. On the roster there were only a few pure doms. The best, ironically, was the self-proclaimed best in the world. But, Punk had conditions. He would play, but not while the sub was drunk or intoxicated. Dean had had a hard time convincing him to play. Punk held his ground and because of that, Dean had been sober for four months while they played beneath the sheets, well figuratively speaking. Relations in the WWE usually meant a bed wasn't available.

They were official and then they weren't. Most 'couples' weren't official in the strictest sense. Seth and Randy were the exception to the rule. The younger man was the only one who could keep the Viper calm and Randy was extremely possessive. Apparently Seth had been collared and claimed before the end of their first night, or so the locker room story went.

Punk and Dean took what they needed and had agreed to it until it was no longer satisfactory. But Punk called the shots right down the middle. Dean was OK with that, and he was totally OK with seeking out what he wanted. And of course, he was totally OK with pretending the sex was all he wanted. After all, it wasn't as if Punk did the exact same thing for his insanity that Seth did for Randy's. It wasn't as if he felt warm on the few occasions that Punk kissed him. It wasn't as if he would gasp Phil, not Punk, as he came hard.

It was safer to pretend. It was safer to pretend everything. Phil fixed what was broken in him. The sobriety wasn't a reflex to Punk's control, or a testament to Dean's seldom seen submissive side. No, it was because at least that way, Dean felt worthy of Phil's touch. It was a way to feel close to him. It wasn't love, not really. Dean wasn't stupid enough to think himself in love with Punk, but he didn't just feel the physical side either. It was the small things that Punk did; the grazes against his skin in public, letting him sleep in the same room, even if they weren't fucking that night, and the look in his eyes. The look that said, I understand. The look that said, they got each other, and he would protect that. It was a look that said you give me as much as I give you. But it wasn't love. Complete and mutual dependence. Anyone asked Dean, that would be how he defined it. Punk felt the same, he just knew it.

His search for the straight-edged superstar was taking longer than he would have liked. Every second, the feelings in him continued to boil and he stopped to calm himself several times. He looked around the still busy canteen. Randy had Seth on his lap, the smaller man grinding mercilessly into his lover as Randy devoured his mouth. Dean groaned inwardly; the sight was a complete turn-on. Where the hell was Punk?

"Hey Dean", Roman's voice burst his thought bubble and Dean turned to see the Samoan wrestler with his two cousins, Jimmy and Jey. The faces of the three were flushed and excited; it had been a good pay per view for Roman and his family hadn't stopped calling.

"Hey, uh, have you guys seen Punk"?

"Last I saw he was heading to management to see H and Steph. I wouldn't though if I were you. Sounds like he's in a mood", Roman took a swig of his water and regarded his teammate silently. He knew that look.

"Thanks man, later", Dean fist-bumped Roman and nodded to the twins before taking off down the hall.

The hallway outside the office was deserted. Voices came from inside. Dean just huffed and jumped up on a couple of crates. After a moment, he felt his blood chill.

"Fuck this shit. This is bull and you know it"!

"Punk, it's what is best for business".

"Best for business my ass! Take a look at your audience Hunter! You have let this go too far, just trying to relive your old glory days! You are running this business into the ground"!

At that point, too many voices started overlapping. Dean hopped off the crates and walked closer to the door, folding his arms across his chest. Suddenly it felt cold.

"Everybody just shut it, for five minutes. Punk, you know"-

"No Vince, I don't know. I don't get it and I don't want to get it. I've had enough, I'm going home".

"For how long"?

"For good. I'm done".

More voices started up. Dean could hear Hunter and Stephanie arguing, Vince pleading with Punk, and Punk- Phil was just repeating it. I'm done, I'm going home.

The voices continued for a few more minutes. Then the door was yanked open and Punk stormed out. His face was dark and his bag was slung across his shoulder. His fists clenched and unclenched. He stalked to the exit at the other end of the corridor. He never noticed Dean. Punk was almost at the door until Dean remembered himself.

"Phil"!

Punk turned around. His expression never changed. For the first time, Dean felt himself falter.

"What do you want"?

"Where are you going"?

"Home. Thanks for the fuck sessions".

With that Punk turned and left.

Dean stared after him. He stared after him until he was sure he was gone. Then he stared some more. The door was open and the cool crisp air made his fingers numb. He didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything. Just cold again. Inside.

He didn't notice when Roman laid a hand on his shoulder. It'd been a couple of hours. Most of the roster had heard by now. Roman didn't say much, but he saw everything. He saw that dead look in Dean's eyes.

"Hey, you wanna get a beer"?

Dean nodded. "Drink sounds good".