Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author Note: Set after the August 2014 episode of Raw when Seth curb-stomped Dean into cinder blocks. Fic title is a lyric from the song 'Ashes to Ashes' by David Bowie.
BUT NO SMOKING PISTOL
Dean didn't linger backstage. He put up with the preliminary medical checks but when they started talking about needing to get him to a hospital, he started moving. People stopped trying to keep him still because they had other more urgent shit to deal with as he yanked the straps off and tugged away the surgical collar before making his staggering escape. His chest had been hurting for a couple of months so that was nothing new but thanks to Seth his head now hurt like a motherfucker too, like he had trouble lifting it and walking straight, but he kept moving because fuck, he was not going to stay there or let himself get caged in at a hospital.
Dean had never liked hospitals, the smell alone made something inside him contract and curdle. No fucking way could he be strapped down, prodded and talked over when at any moment Seth could walk in and smirk.
He'd hesitated, hadn't he? There'd been a moment when Kane had made the order and the cinder blocks had felt welcoming and cool because oh, Dean knew how to do this. He still had the scars to prove it. And Seth had hesitated, before delivering the crushing pain of a curb stomp.
It didn't matter now but the spaces, the gaps, they said things and they could be put together into a fascinating epic. Dean was great with crazy-glue.
The air outside felt like a slap to the face. Dean sucked it in through gritted teeth, one arm hugging the side of the building. What city were they in again? Okay, he recognized that street over there. He and Roman had made plans after Seth had beaten the shit out of them. The places the Shield had used as safehouses before were abandoned now because Seth was bound to use everything they'd shared against them and Dean wasn't going to give him even a sliver of satisfaction. He and Roman had scratched out new places for use, never at the same time though, of fucking course. Dean just wanted to lie down.
He had the key somewhere, didn't he? He fumbled it out of his pants pocket, gripping the key so tight it hurt. It was the kind of pain that cut through the rest of his fucking agony. He was getting looks from whoever else was currently cluttering the sidewalk but as he was walking and not falling over, so far, so fucking good. It wasn't far, almost like they'd planned it. Ha.
The lock was stiff when he finally reached the right building and stuffed the key in the right door. With effort and a kick, the door protested but opened. It was pretty much a flophouse but it was ideal right now for Dean. There were a couple of cheap cot beds, working plumbing and enough stuff in the kitchen to last him a few days. Dean's head swam, he didn't remember how he'd gotten there exactly, there'd been a lot of steps in the dark, hadn't there. Story of his life. Steps in the dark and cop sirens and a couple of knives sticking out of his back.
He tumbled down onto one of the beds, closed his eyes and gave into the agony.
His dreams, if they were dreams, felt like bruises and when he surfaced again, he wasn't sure he'd actually broken free of the stretcher because somebody was sat there beside the bed. After a jerk of movement, Dean stilled and relaxed gratefully, resenting that gratefulness because he'd recognized the shadow watching over him.
"You broke the rule," he told the darkness.
Roman looked at him in disbelief, "You're concerned with rules now?"
Dean flapped a clawed hand, colliding with Roman's leg. His hand stayed there because Roman was solid and Dean could smell the weird seaweed body-foam thing that Roman often used. Still, they'd agreed that they couldn't be seen together because the Authority had way too much leverage over them already and because a split could give Dean and Roman the essential element of surprise somewhere down the line. It was a decision that Roman had agreed to all too readily and a situation that had been entirely created by Seth. Seth. Dean could feel the ache in his chest spreading, like some kind of disease.
Roman pressed a hand to Dean's shoulder, his eyes dark but so utterly fucking knowing, like he had a pain in his chest too.
Dean stayed like that, pinned under Roman's hand, for a while because his head was fucking overwhelmed by pain. Jesus fuck, how long was it going to be like this? It almost matched the pain in his chest now. At least the headache would leave eventually.
Roman's fingers were sort of stroking him and that felt good so Dean didn't twitch too much. He rolled his other shoulder; it felt surprisingly okay considering how long he'd had it taped up. Lose one, gain another. Why not? Why fucking not.
There was a rattle; Roman was holding out a pill bottle. Dean squinted at the label, it looked legit and not like it'd send him into putrid shades of nightmares or smack him with three days under with nothing but cotton-mouth to show for it afterward.
"Pills fuck me up," he reminded Roman anyway.
"I got you the good stuff."
Dean squinted at Roman this time, just for a second, because he'd trusted Seth with that kind of thing before – pills and meals on the road, laughs, music and a steadying hand under Dean's vest. He'd trusted Seth and then Seth had cinder-blocked all of that. Trust had turned out to be a fucking joke. Only here was Roman when they didn't see each other at all nowadays, to keep the Authority at bay and guessing, and also because Roman seemed to have more important things to do now anyway which only made bile twist through Dean's pain. Roman never seemed as mired in fucking heartbreak as Dean but he was there now and he was solid.
He didn't look offended when faced with Dean's calculating distrustful eye-rake.
He held out a chipped mug of water and levered Dean up to swallow a couple of pills and finish off the water.
"You're seeing a medic tomorrow."
Panic, anger, pain punched through Dean's chest like an unholy fucking fever, one Dean knew way too well. He tried to claw his way out of straps that didn't exist.
"Not the-."
"Not the hospital. Who do you think gave me the pills? He'll meet us a couple of streets over."
Huh. A WWE employee not dancing to the Authority's tune. And they wouldn't be seeing the safehouse. Dean ground a knuckle across his right eye socket. If this was a plot, then the Authority would have landed by now. Roman was still crouching by the bed, his shoulder against Dean's. Roman was still there. Dean's chuckle was drier than dust, Roman's hair brushed against Dean's cheek.
Dean's chest still hurt, he wondered how often Roman's did, if it was an ache that blared every fucking hour of the day. He wondered why Roman was here at all.
"Because you'd probably pass out in your own vomit without me."
How had Roman known what he was thinking? And now that Roman mentioned it, Dean did feel the urge to hunch over and empty his stomach. A bucket was shoved into his lap.
When he was done, Dean lay back. His chest felt like he'd been kicked like a mule and his head was about ready to crack. But all he could think about was Seth covered in ice water, Seth curb-stomping him on the announce table, then doing the same on cinder blocks. Seth, Seth, Seth, it was like looking through cracked glass. That wasn't Seth, only it was, the crazy funhouse mirror version. He'd become what everyone had said Dean would end up as. Dean's laugh was more like a raw cough now.
He closed his eyes.
"Blurred vision?"
"No."
Roman made a pleased sound and didn't leave. Didn't he have a viper to defang? An Authority to dismantle? An ache to ignore?
"We agreed, it's better if we split," Roman reminded him, like Dean had spoken aloud.
Dean's lip curled, his eyes still closed. He felt Roman bend closer, his breath warm and his subsequent words utterly calm and firm, like he was etching them onto Dean's bones or some shit.
"This doesn't change anything. We're still brothers."
It still hurt. Seth had claimed that he'd never cared about Dean, that they'd never been brothers. Roman was claiming the opposite, claiming it like he actually believed it, like saying that would make it true. Well, Dean had experienced what happened between brothers, they fought and they tore each other apart, didn't they? Only Seth hadn't looked torn apart, he'd just looked triumphant.
Fuck, the pain was like hot tar on bare skin, like the twisting jaws of a car wreck, like the kind of library-level shit Dean could remember between the slippery-warm peeks of summer and Seth's laughter against Roman's thigh.
Roman had messaged him a lot since the Shield's split, texting him news and conversation, the sort of stuff they'd talked about on the road, nothing and everything, a million different pieces of themselves, a lifeline, a joke, a fucking necessity maybe. Was that how Roman saw it? He could have left the city by now, he could have left right after his match but he'd stayed, to watch Dean fight? Did he watch all of Dean's matches? Dean felt a very different kind of tenderized, just for a moment.
Then the agony felt like it was getting close again, like it was pressing against the darkness behind his eyes, like his dreams were coming back. Dean dug his fingers into Roman's leg.
"He hesitated."
Dean's mouth felt rough around those words and Roman's thumb stroked across his pulse firmly.
In the morning, the heating had packed up and it was as cold as balls. Roman was still there, tucked into the crappy armchair, his hand close to Dean. Dean hissed at the pain still wrapped around his brain, at how leaden his limbs felt. He'd fought through worse but the hot tar-feeling kept melting through him and his chest still felt mangled. It'd been that way since June. Fuck, where were those pills?
Roman was awake now, he'd spent the night cramped up in a seated position, his back and neck were probably fucked or they would be once the cold disappeared and he could feel his limbs again. But he looked at Dean and smiled; those familiar sharp edges were a fucking comfort.
Dean possessively hoarded everything he saw and felt in that moment, gripped by ferocity and want, because Seth had stolen so much, he wasn't getting this too, not one fucking scrap. Roman's hand touched Dean; his breath was warm and morning-rank. He was solid; Dean burrowed his fingers into Roman's arm, remorseless and starving. He was going to leave bruises, Roman didn't seem to care. Another pain for them to share, down to the fucking bone.
-the end