You Won't Feel a Thing
Dean is numb.
No, really. Ever since he was a child he'd never been able to experience physical pain. He'd broken his arm once; gone to the hospital without even really understanding what was wrong with him. He'd been in bar fights, street fights, taken all manner of beatings. He'd been abused, beaten down and more, but he never really felt it. Sure it had taken the emotional toll that one would expect, but he figures that if he can't stick a pin through his own skin and feel bad about it, than the anger at being battered around in life was enough to handle on its own.
But this time, he feels numb.
It's an odd sensation, because its not the kind of numb he's used to. This one doesn't register as a punch in the face. It doesn't even register as immense grief. It registers as nothing, and that's the worst kind of numb.
Seth is numb too.
But a different kind, where he can't feel his legs anymore, because all of the blood is leaking out of him through his ears and nose and mouth. The kind where he isn't even scared anymore because the nothingness is so peaceful.
"Oh, man," he murmurs, past the blood bubbling in his throat, his voice barely a whisper, "how did we end up like this?"
Dean wonders. How, indeed.
Seth has never met another person who can do the things he does.
He's never met a person who could outdo him in physical training or land the dangerous aerial stunts he manages in the warehouse. He's never met anyone who could name all of Parkway Drive's albums in chronological order like he could, or anyone who just really loved Crossfit like he did.
He spent his time getting stronger, being as reckless as someone his age could physically be, which included freerunning all over the damn city like a gecko on a sugar high. Seth liked parkour. It gave him a chance to test his body's limits without a local crowded gym's help when all the city was his gym. Sometimes it got him into trouble, which was understandable. In a city like Los Angeles, running around in seemingly abandoned places could warrant some very questionable practices being revealed. Seth has had his fair share of stumbling upon a drug dealer and their clients hiding out in many an abandoned warehouse.
That's kind of how he meets Dean.
At first glance, Dean Ambrose might've looked like the kind of guy you kept at an arm's length or longer for fear that he'd attack you or steal your wallet or something. But then, he'd smile, show off those dimples and you'd maybe think twice.
And then he'd steal your wallet.
Dean Ambrose was no saint. He'd been born with a hard heart and even harder skin, like fucking Superman, except with a bad attitude. He knew how to survive, which at the moment, meant a drug deal in a shady warehouse on the outskirts of town, full of dry rot and smelling of mold and rat shit. This was what Dean did to survive, he sold drugs. He helped people fuck up their lives because that was the easiest thing in the world, especially when poor suckers paid hundreds of dollars for it.
"We gonna do this shit or what?" he growls now, shoving his hands in his pockets. He knew better than to obscure the view of his hands during a drug trade –people were so panicky, they might think you had a gun on you or something- but it was drafty as fuck in there. And there must've been a bird trapped in the rafters or something, because he kept hearing quiet little thumping noises up there.
It's only when a particularly noisy thump sounds somewhere overhead that Dean suspects something's up.
Dean actually sees him before anyone else does.
He spies the narrow flash of red and black in the rafters, hanging by two arms on the old steel beams above, dangling like a one-winged angel. He can't really see his face way up there in the shadows, but he can make out the shining glimmer of brown eyes watching the group below. They meet his a moment later, and something inside Dean spins like a top and makes him dizzy.
He's familiar with the dizziness, the tingly whirling in his head that comes with a drug high, and for a moment he wonders if there's something in the air.
He kind of wants to keep staring at the human drug, wants to stare until he can figure out how the guy up there can make him fucking trip out like that, but the eyes blink and suddenly the figure is swaying, sharp and quick and arches back into the dark. Dean loses sight of him, and doesn't feel the eyes on him for the rest of the deal.
The old storage warehouse in the dirty housing project nest on the edge of town is where the drug dealers meet. Sometimes meets occur during the day, bright streams of sunlight squeezing through the dirt smeared windows to brush across a tiny white baggie of powder. Other times, it happened at night, which was where things got shady. Sneaks could get away with shit easier during the night, which meant lost merchandise and occasionally lost lives.
Dean's group didn't really hang around for nighttime trades. It wasn't like they had curfew or anything like that; most of the gang had parents who didn't really care what their children did so long as they didn't hinder them from drinking in front of the living room television or fucking the neighbor's wife. It was meant for safety. A little ironic considering the line of work they'd chosen, but hey, beggars can't be choosers. They took what reassurance they could get, and that usually meant daytime work.
And Dean, living on his own in some shitty apartment, definitely had no rules of his own, so it was all fair game as far as he was concerned.
"I think we were being watched," Dean mumbles after the deal is over. Sami's eyes go impossibly wide. "What? Dude, why didn't you say anything? Shit, was it the cops or something? Where'd you see 'em?"
Dean loved his best friend, really, he did. But Sami was as panicky as they came for a drug dealer. Dean finds it in himself not to roll his eyes "I don't fucking know. I don't think it was the cops, though. Not unless they've got fucking Spiderman on their side."
"What?"
"The guy was hanging from the ceiling," Dean explains offhandedly. He adds thoughtfully, "On second thought, it might've just been a huge rat. With really big brown eyes."
Sami does not look convinced. He punches Dean's arm, which is kind of pointless, since Dean can't feel it and grins. "A rat," he deadpans. "Are you sure it wasn't a bat? Batman or some shit?"
Dean jumps and pulls him down, laughing, wraps an arm around his neck. "You're fucking stupid."
"You're the one who said it was a giant rat."
Seth is running.
He's running as fast as he can, arms pumping, heart racing because holy shit he was not supposed to have seen that.
He'd been in an old parking garage and had attracted the attention of some very unsavory gang members conducting equally unsavory business. He'd done the only thing he could readily think of when a hailstorm of bullets was being fired at him, and ran as fast as he could.
Whoever these people were, they were very persistent, he'd give them that.
If he'd been thinking straight, he could've done something other than lead them on a wild goose chase in and out of deserted alleys like a normal human being. He weaves through alleys, climbs fences, jumps obstacles. It's times like these he's really grateful he taught himself parkour; it makes escapes so much easier-
"Shit!"
A bullet whizzes past him and sends a spray of brick building flying in all directions. Seth barrels on, his eyes searching frantically for a way out. Then he sees it: an old factory with plenty of little storage sheds around to hide in. He finds a burst of speed still left in himself and surges towards the fenced in yard thinking he can lose the gang members there. If not, well…he'd burn that bridge when he got to it.
Seth sprints through the alleyway, emerging out in open space. He reaches the fence, nearly slamming into it with the force of his running, and immediately begins climbing. He has no time to waste; a bullet just bounced off the metal railing of the fence. Seth hits the ground hard, but lands squarely on his feet, and then he's off again. He chances a glance back at his pursuers to find them panting at the edge of the fence.
Thank god for Seth's outrageous amounts of stamina.
Seth breathes out a huffed laugh and keeps running. He still needs to get out of sight.
The actual factory building is surrounded by another fence, which Seth again climbs easily and drops himself into the concrete yard. From there, he jogs around the perimeter of the building, looking for a way in. He sees an air duct that's been boarded up on the side of the building; maybe he can get inside through there?
Seth walks in a half-circle around it, trying to get an idea of his newest challenge. It looks like he can get up to the duct if he jumps up onto the large pipes running into the ground from the side of the building. Then he can just kick the boards out and enter in. Right.
Seth takes a few steps back, takes a breath, and runs for the wall. Planting his foot against the brick, he wall-runs the short distance to arm's reach of the pipes and then launches off again with his foot. He swings from the pipe for a moment, collecting himself, and pulls himself up.
Seth straddles the pipes, then begins kicking away at the boards. They cave in easily –they've probably rotted from the inside- and Seth crawls inside. It takes some wriggling to get past the large rusted industrial fan, but Seth manages.
Inside the factory, the world smells of dust and mold and old boxes. The sunlight dappling in from the dirt coated windows illuminates the dust particles floating about in the air, and Seth coughs. The sound echoes through the empty factory, and Seth really wishes he had found someplace a little cleaner to hide in.
But hey, beggars can't be choosers.
Seth figures he should get up to the rafters at some point; if the thugs finally come looking, he'd have a better chance of remaining unseen (and alive) in the dark cool of the ceiling rafters. So that's what Seth does. He's looking for a way to get up when he hears the sound of a safety latch being pulled.
Shit.
Had one of the thugs gotten in? Had he stumbled back into another illegal drug ring or something? God, he just could not catch a break!
Seth turns, and wow, okay. The guy had been closer than he thought, practically standing an arm's length away from Seth, gun in hand, currently pointed at Seth somewhere between his eyes.
Seth swears in a hushed whisper, backing up instinctively. He nearly trips over his heels, but his natural grace saves him from that nasty fall. Seth realizes that he's too close to the guy to actually run away –he'd risk getting a bullet to the back if he did- so he figures he's better off doing something else.
Talking.
"Hey, man," he pants, heart hammering in his chest, "I'm not hiding anything, okay? I'm just hiding in here until some people leave, okay?" He doesn't know if the guy comprehends him, but he figures he hasn't been shot yet, so he may as well keep doing what he's doing.
"I got chased here by some guys; I'll be gone before you even know it."
And the guy…smirks. Actually smirks, and it's occurred to Seth that he has dimples. Huh.
"Yeah, okay," says the guy. "You see too much or something? Got the local cartel on your ass? Don't tell me it's the cops, kid."
Seth bristles momentarily. "I'm not a kid. I'm Seth, and I just needed a place to hide."
The guy shrugs again, and he hasn't even tried to lower the gun. "Maybe so. Name's Dean," he says easily, "and I just might shoot you today."