His head hurt so bad. If you asked him why he'd left the hospital, he really wouldn't have been able to tell you. Instinct, perhaps. His own independent nature cranked up to eleven. But frankly, he couldn't remember.

His body seemed to know where it was going, though. Or was trying to go. He staggered a lot, one hand holding onto his bandaged head. He was probably concussed, not that his head was in the best order most of the time anyway.

Dean just needed to make it someplace safe. That's where he was going, yeah. Somewhere safe… somewhere… here.

Yeah, here was good. Right? Maybe. Should be. Whoops, no more time to deliberate. His legs gave out on him. And a second later, his consciousness did too. But that was okay. He was safe here. His instinct told him so.

And he collapsed against the door with an audible THUNK.

—

"What the hell…?"

Roman hadn't been expecting anybody, and when he peered out the peephole, he didn't see anyone. He huffed in irritation- what were people trying to pull? Whipping the door open, he was about to seriously tell someone off…

"Oh, shit…"

…but his ire cooled immediately when he saw the smaller man laying at the foot of the door in an unconscious heap, bloodied bandage wrapped around his forehead. Damnit. Why was he here? Why wasn't he in the hospital? Grunting, Roman knelt, scooped Dean up with fairly relative ease, and brought him inside, laying him on the bed.

He couldn't stop a jag of guilt from spiking down his throat. He should've been there.

—-

The jackal that was once his brother laughed. He laughed and laughed as Cerberus drove Dean's head into the rocks on the banks of the Styx. Over and over and over again. The water of the river of the dead lapped into his mouth and nose and Dean sputtered and whined. He tried to bite but he was a lot smaller. Just a wild hound dog with matted fur and no sense of quit being brutalized by the dog of Hell itself.

He was going to die on the banks of the Styx with jackal laughter in his ears. But where was he? Where was his packmate?

Where was Roman, the great fierce wolfhound?

—-

"Rrrrmnnn…"

It was a thick mumble, but it was something. A good sign. Roman held the ice pack to Dean's head, and managed an encouraging smile.

"…right here, buddy."

Dean blinked, eyes opening slowly. Roman had half a mind to ask him what the hell he'd been thinking, IF he'd been thinking, how he could just walk away from medical attention he obviously needed. But now was not the time for a lecture.

"Roman… where the hell were you…?"

It's a muzzy question, dizzy, but it cut Roman to the quick. Where had he been? Minding his own damn business. Thinking about Lesnar, if he could be a good match for the Beast Incarnate. His own ambition.

He'd been thinking about that a lot lately. Dean could take care of himself, he reasoned. Doesn't need me to look after him like a kid.

But his brother had needed him. Needed him to keep Kane at bay. Needed him to stop what was damn near an execution. Dean had needed him and he wasn't there.

"…I'm sorry, Dean."

He couldn't say anything else. But for the rest of the night, as if to make up for his absence since that night a couple months ago, Roman Reigns did not leave Dean Ambrose's side.