DISCLAIMER: Dean Ambrose/Jon Moxley, and Roman Reigns are not my creations or my property. They belong to the WWE and/or the actors/professional wrestlers/sports entertainers that own them. Jessica and Leah (who are but mentioned in this story) are my own creations and any resemblance to them and anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Trigger Warning: This is not a happy story and gets even grittier from here on out. If dark stories are not your thing, please don't read it. I hate turning away readers, but I don't want to upset anyone who can't handle it either.

Rain Dance

Part II

1:47 am.

The corners of Jon's mouth curled into a mean smile as Roman sat down at the table. "Good boy," he said, leaning over and dropping a kiss on the top of Roman's head, just as he had done before when they were Shield and they had a particularly brutal match. Then he sat down across from him, putting the gun on the table, right in front of himself. "Drink your coffee, Roman," he said, "It's getting cold."

Roman tried to look calm, but Jon could see the faint trembling of his hand as he raised the coffee cup to his lips and took a sip, then grimaced. "What is this, coffee milk?"

"No, it's just regular coffee," Jon said. "Sugar and cream, you know, like most people drink it."

"I don't like sugar in my coffee," Roman reminded him. "I don't even really like coffee. I only drink it-"

-"Oh shut up," Jon interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I know, I know, you only drink it when you really have to, otherwise you try to avoid stimulants, blah blah blah blah blah, Roman, you are positively boring. I mean, even your lady drinks coffee."

Roman swallowed, looked as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind and took another sip of the coffee. At this point, I need all the stimulation I can get, his brain told him. Because I have no clue what the heck is happening, but it is not good at all.

"That's better," Jon said, nodding in approval as if Roman were but a child who had finally come down off a temper tantrum and was now quiet and docile. "See? This isn't so bad, is it, Roman?"

Roman looked at Jon, then down at the table. "Where'd you get the gun, Jon?" he asked, keeping his voice as low, flat, and emotionless as he could.

"On the streets," Jon said. "A guy like me? Well, a guy like me knows how to get this kind of stuff, Roman. It's one of my... talents, so-to-speak. While you were in school, learning reading, writing, geometry, trigonometry, audiometry, and ladies-who-wants-to-be-first-to-suck-my-dick-etry, I was learning how to survive on the streets. And one thing I learned is that guns are everywhere. They come in all sizes, colors, and prices. Take this gun for example," He picked up the gun and held it up so Roman could see it. "This is a Smith and Wesson, M&P 9mm, pro series." As he talked, he twisted the gun from side to side, looking almost as if he was trying to sell Roman the piece. "Now, a gun like this in a store would set you back four to six hundred bucks. Might be able to get it for 350 on a sale. On the street? Something like this would set you back anywhere from two hundred and up, depending on how clean it is. I got it for forty bucks." He grinned at Roman. "Of course, it's got a few bodies on it. Do you know what that means?"

Roman had a pretty good idea what it meant, but he also had the feeling Jon/Dean was dying to tell him, so he shook his head.

Jon studied him, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly as if he was trying not to laugh. "Roman, are you... scared of me?"

Roman swallowed. "Well, you are sitting there with a gun and you're telling me what to do. What do you think?"

"Good point," Jon nodded. "Okay, I guess you can be a little bit afraid of me. I don't mind, I kind of like it. But we're not at the point where you have to fall apart and beg, that'll come later. Anyway, as I was saying, this piece has some bodies on it. Which means it's been involved in a few homicides, which means if I get caught with it in my possession, I could end up getting charged with those homicides. The more bodies on a gun, the more its value goes down to criminals. So, this gun has at least a few bodies on it. Might have a whole lot of bodies on it, that punk kid might have ripped me off."

"Aren't you worried about the police finding you with it, then?" Roman asked, taking another drink of coffee. Drink it all, he thought. Too sweet it might be, but get that caffeine in your system.

"Not really," Jon said calmly, picking up the cinnamon-pecan roll with the hand not holding the gun and taking a bite. "When they find me and this gun together, it will be too late."

Roman stared at him. "Jon, what's the plan here? Why are you doing this?"

Jon shrugged. "Because I'm tired. Try the pastry, Roman, it's really good."

Roman looked at the cinnamon-pecan roll. It looked like a huge, swollen snail with stripes of frosting on it. It was also about the last thing he wanted to put into his mouth, but he had a feeling Jon/Dean wasn't going to let it go. He forced himself to tear off a piece and put it in his mouth.

"What do you think, Roman?" Jon asked, tearing off a piece of his own and eating it.

"It's too sweet," Roman said, trying not to grimace as he chewed. "I don't eat stuff like this, you know that."

"Yes, I know, I know," Jon rolled his eyes, looking disgusted. "Trust me, I've heard it all before from you."

"I'm sorry," Roman sounded slightly defensive. "I just believe that what I put into this body for fuel is just as important as working out is."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Jon said, and with each "yeah" he twisted his wrist so the gun made a slow circle in the air. "We have to take care of our bodies if we want to have a long career in wrestling, blah blah blah blah blah." He started the gun circling again with the "blah" this time. "But Roman, there is a limit to everything, and you cross that limit all the time. I know, I know there are a variety of health problems that run in your family, many due to weight issues, blah blah blah, I understand that, I really do, but there is a place, somewhere between enjoying your life and controlling your life and you are very much to the east of the control line. You never let yourself go."

"Not true," Roman said, the defensive tone in his voice getting more obvious. "I've eaten sweets before."

"Yeah, but that's all you've done," Jon took another bite of the roll. "You've eaten them. You've never enjoyed them. Take another bite, Roman. You'll find it gets better."

Roman pulled off another piece and forced himself to eat it, taking a sip of the coffee to help rinse away the frosting that was clinging to his teeth. "Not true," he said, when he was sure he could talk without risking spraying Dean/Jon with bits of dough.

"Oh BULLSHIT!" Jon roared, then lowered his voice. "Remember your daughter's birthday party?"

Roman nodded, he wasn't likely to forget an occasion that special.

"We all went to be there," Jon continued, as if Roman had said he needed reminding. "You, me... well, Dean me, but you get the point." He paused and looked at Roman, "You do get the point, right?" When Roman nodded, he continued. "Even Seth was there. We all care a lot about your little girl, she's cool. But anyway, we're all there, your extended family, us, everyone, having a party. And your mother brings out the cake. This beautiful cake she worked so hard to make. She made the cake by scratch, Roman. By scratch! No Duncan Hines, no Betty Crocker, she used flour, eggs, and whatever else you need to make that cake. And she made this butter cream frosting, also from scratch. And she had decorated that cake with these flowers and butterflies, and all those things little girls like, all edible and home made, too. It was a beautiful cake. It was almost a shame to cut that cake, because I've seen cakes in bakeries that weren't half as pretty as that cake. Even the cakes that guy on TV makes didn't look as good as this cake. But, it was a party, so we cut the cake. And we all get a piece, and it's fucking delicious. It's like..." He paused looking thoughtful, moving the gun in those lazy circles again, as if it was helping him think. "It was like you could taste the love that went into that cake. Your mother did more than just mix ingredients together, she put part of her heart into that cake. And the pieces, they weren't that big, smaller than average, I'd say. And we're all eating this cake, because it's just the most delicious cake we've ever eaten. Well, almost all of us. One person wasn't eating it, Roman. Can we guess who that was?"

"I ate some!" Roman protested.

"Yeah," Jon shook his head sadly. "You did. You scraped all the frosting off, separated the layers so you could scrape all of that frosting from the middle, then you took about two bites of cake. The moment you thought no one was watching, you threw the rest of it in the trash. This beautiful cake, bro. This fucking beautiful cake to celebrate your own daughter's birthday, made by your mother, and you couldn't even eat any of the frosting. Or more than two bites."

"I-I just don't like sweet stuff," Roman said, defending himself. "It makes my teeth hurt."

"Oh, bullshit," Jon said, sitting up straighter and pointing the gun right at Roman's forehead, finger on the trigger. "You're spoiled."

Roman gulped, staring at that gun. This wasn't the first gun he'd ever seen in his life, but it was the first time he had spent more than a few seconds staring down the barrel of one. And he'd never dealt with a gun that was being held by a crazy man before now, either. "I-I'm not spoiled," he said, softly.

"Yes you are," Jon disagreed, still pointing that gun. "You're used to having everything. Parents who love you, fiance, daughter, everyone adores you. You could throw that cake away without thinking twice, because there will always be another cake. You'll have a birthday, your fiance will have a birthday, Leah will have a birthday. And your mom will make a cake, every time, because that's what she does. You never have to worry, there will always, always, always be another cake. " He paused to take a drink from his coffee, gun still pointed at Roman. "Do you know how much I wanted a mother who would make me a birthday cake?" He asked. "Just once?" He shook his head. "She bought me a cupcake once for my birthday. A cupcake from the grocery store. She probably bought a six pack of them, but her and her druggy friends ate all but one. But I came home from school and she gave it to me. She said 'Happy Birthday!' and I think a couple of her druggie friends even tried to sing the song to me, but gave up half way through. I didn't care. I loved it. I ate that cupcake thinking this was the best birthday of my life. I even saved the wrapper to that stupid cupcake for weeks, until the roaches found it. A store bought cupcake meant that much to me, meanwhile, you go throwing away the most delicious fucking cake in the universe, because-" He dropped into a whiny, but not bad imitation of Roman's voice. "Sweets make my teeth hurt."

"Is that what this is all about?" Roman asked, swallowing hard. "You come here and start pointing a gun at me because I don't like cake?"

"No," Jon sighed, as if it pained him to have to confess. "That's just part of it. I just want you to have one time where you don't worry, that you just lose control and enjoy yourself. I thought maybe a cinnamon-pecan roll would do it, but I guess I was wrong." He reached over with his free hand and knocked the plate closest to Roman onto the floor where it crashed into pieces, the pastry skidding across the floor of the kitchen area. "It's okay, you don't have to eat it."

Roman didn't like the crash or the sudden violence to the act, but part of him was really glad he wasn't going to have to continue eating that lump of dough, frosting, and sugar. "I like the coffee," Roman said, taking another gulp of that. It was still too sweet, but he was getting used to it and it wasn't that bad.

"Good, at least you're enjoying something." Jon shook his head. "I want you to enjoy it, Roman. I don't want you to worry about the carbs in the sugar or the fat in the cream, because that is cream in there, not milk, not half and half and certainly not...bean juice, like you have to give to your daughter. You're not lactose intolerant, so you have no excuse for drinking that disgusting crap. I just want you to enjoy something like a regular human being."

Roman was starting to feel a headache creeping up on him. He wasn't sure if it was from trying to drink the coffee too quickly or the tension and fear he was feeling, and he was feeling both, no doubt about that. He knew Dean Ambrose, and Dean Ambrose would never hurt him. But Jon Moxley? That was another story. He had seen the Moxley promos and matches before. Some of the promos were hysterically funny, but there was always this crazy edge to them, you always wondered if he was faking the crazy, or drawing on it. And Roman wasn't sure that this Jon Moxley was the same in the promotions or if this was an even darker part of Dean's soul that he had decided to name Jon Moxley as well. There was a lot Roman wasn't sure of right now, but one thing he was; this Dark Jon Moxley was running the show and Roman had no clue how to deal with Dark Jon. And Dark Jon had a gun trained on him and a look that said he not only knew how to use it, but would like using it, too. "Jon, do you have to keep that gun on me?" he finally asked.

Jon stared at him. "Yes, I do. Because if I don't, you'll try to play hero. And I'm not allowing that."

Roman swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this, Jon?" he finally forced himself to ask. "Because from where I sit, pointing a gun at me is not the way to get me to relax and enjoy life."

"That isn't the only reason why I'm here," Jon said, scornfully. "I just want you to have one time when you relax because...well..." He sighed. "I don't know how much longer I can take it, Roman."

"Take what?" Roman asked.

"Everything," Jon started moving the gun around in slow circles again. "Life, everything. I'm just tired, you know? Tired of being crazy." He took a swallow of coffee. "I am crazy, we all know that. But it's tiring being crazy."

"Then don't be," Roman said, thinking that this sounded stupid even to his own ears, but not having a clue what else he could say.

"I wish," Jon sighed again. "I tried. When I joined the WWE family, they told me 'You can't be Jon Moxley. That's too wild for us. You need to tone that down.' So, I became Dean Ambrose. That was fine. Dean was a little crazy, but it was this determined crazy, not a crazy-crazy. Now though, Dean isn't enough. 'People want you to be crazy, Dean. We need you to let some of that Moxley into things. Make him PG though, nothing too risque, but crazy? Yeah, we want lots of crazy.'" He looked over at Roman. "Do you know what its like to find out that the only thing that makes you anything to anyone is that your psyche is broken?"

"Dean," Roman began, forgetting for a moment.

"-JON!" Jon roared in reminder. "Don't call me, Dean. Dean isn't here. Dean is someplace deep inside where his not-as-crazy ass will be safe and sound until it's time. He'll never know what hit him."

"What is going to hit him?" Roman asked, trying not to look at the gun, one of the hardest things he had ever done, because he was starting to get a weird, sinking feeling, a suspicion of what was going on here, and he didn't like it.

Jon grinned. "Do you really want to know?" Before Roman could answer, he put the gun to his temple.

"No!" Not thinking, Roman found himself lunging to stop what he was afraid was going to happen. Jon pushed himself in his chair out of the way neatly.

"Uh-uh." Jon waggled one finger back and forth, the gun still to his temple. "I warned you, don't play hero. Besides, you should have wanted me to kill myself just then."

"Why would I want that?" Roman asked. Think, his mind was screaming, Think! There has to be a way to get him to stop, think!

"Because if I had killed myself, you'd be safe," Jon said, calmly. "Oh, sure, you'd have some mess, explaining everything to the cops, it wouldn't be pretty. You'd probably be emotionally scared for life, because you care about Dean and you're that kind of guy. But you'd be alive." He suddenly moved the gun away from his temple and pointed it at Roman again, his expression changing to a sneer. "I can't guarantee you'll make it out of this alive, Roman. I mean, I can pretty much guarantee you won't. I'm thinking I might want some company in the afterlife and since you're Dean's best friend, I'm also thinking it should be you."

So there it was, on the table. Even though Roman felt dread rising in his stomach, spreading through him as though it became part of his blood, a small part of him felt relief. At least he knew what the game was. And knowing the game was a step in the right direction of being able to figure out the game, which might even lead to finding a way to win the game. "I don't want to die," he said, keeping his own voice as calm as Jon's had been, trying to make it sound like he was just stating facts, not begging.

"I know," Jon nodded, looking sympathetic. "Nobody wants to die. Well, maybe I do, but I'm crazy. Sane people don't want to die. But, here's the problem, Roman. I have the gun. And I think I want to have someone take this journey with me." His eyes narrowed. "So, you don't really have a choice, do you?"

"You don't want to kill me," Roman said, trying to keep his voice as soothing as possible, trying to keep Jon/Dean calm and hoping this would put him off his guard. "You really don't, Jon."

"Why wouldn't I?" Jon asked, refusing to be sedated, but staring at him, still pointing the gun at him. "You're Dean's brother and best friend. I can't think of a better person to go off to the great beyond with. I don't have a best friend or a brother, but since Dean and I are..well, we share the same body, that makes us close in a way, I have to borrow his instead."

"Because I have a daughter," Roman pointed out. "I love her, you love her. You're her Unca Dean. Do you think it'll be good for her to grow up with a father? For her to know she lost her father and her Uncle Dean on the same night, because Uncle Dean decided to go crazy?"

"Jon." Jon corrected.

"Dean," Roman stubbornly insisted, part of him praying this wouldn't anger "Jon" into acting on his impulse. "Leah doesn't know about Jon, and if you kill us both, she never will. She'll think her Uncle Dean killed her Daddy. Is that fair to her?"

Jon sighed. "You had to bring that up, didn't you?" He shook his head. "That's pretty unfair. But, I understand, you don't want to die, you'll probably do anything to save your life." He rose from the chair and walked over to Roman. "On your feet, big guy," he said, putting the gun to Roman's head and pulling on his arm to get him to rise.

Feeling the gun at his temple, Roman felt part of him freeze, but he allowed himself to be brought to his feet by "Jon." "Where are we going?" he asked, his voice a thin whisper.

"We have to get your phone," Jon said. "Let's go."

Roman's phone was on his night stand as it always was. Jon had him sit on the bed and stood in front of him, pointing the gun at at Roman's forehead and handed him the phone. "I want you to type a message to your daughter."

"Okay," Roman said, his mouth going dry as he wondered what Jon would have him say.

"Type this: 'Daddy loves you, Leah. Don't ever forget that.'"

Roman's fingers moved on the screen pad, his fingers trembling so badly that a message that might have only taken seconds for him to type at a normal time, took him minutes now. "D-done," he whispered, when he finished.

"Show me," Dean demanded.

Roman turned the phone and held it up so Jon could see it. Jon pressed the gun into Roman's forehead so hard that he could feel the circular dent being made in his skin. Jon read the message and nodded.

"Hit send."

"Jon," Roman whispered, "Don't make me-"

"HIT SEND!" Jon roared as he pulled back the gun and slammed it into the side of Roman's head. The move was so quick, so unexpected that Roman was taken totally off guard. He didn't have time to pull back, so the gun hit him squarely and firmly.

That was when Roman went from being merely scared to being terrified. And almost certain he would not make it through the night. Squinting, because he was still seeing stars from the slam to his head, he hit send. "It's not enough," he heard himself whisper.

"What?" Jon asked, glaring at him, gun back to Roman's forehead.

"It's not enough," Roman repeated, a little louder now, even though the stars hadn't subsided yet. "It's a nice message, but it's not enough. She's a little girl, Jon. She's had it rough enough, having a Daddy that isn't home every day like most kids. But she does the best she can." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. If Jon really was going to do what he was threatening, he would do it knowing the truth. "You know her, Jon. She's pretty well adjusted for a kid that knows her Daddy mostly from Skype and the phone. But she's not invincible. This is going to hurt her, this might destroy her. You talk about how you wish you had a family that cared about you growing up. Why do you want to take that away from a little girl who never did anything to you but love you."

"Oh, no fair, Roman," Jon said, a sly smile on his face. "Very good, and very unfair. But, this is where not really being Dean is a lot of help. Because Dean does love your daughter. Seriously, if anything ever happened to you and Jessica and the rest of your family, Dean would have raised that kid, that's how much he loves her. But I'm not Dean, remember? I feel bad and all for your kid, Roman, but I'm more concerned about having my alter ego's best friend in the afterlife."

"What if there is no afterlife?" Roman pointed out. Dean had never claimed to be very religious, he doubted Jon had a lot of faith in a higher power.

"Then we can be worm food together," Jon said, shrugging. "I can deal with that." He grabbed Roman by the arm and hauled him to his feet, pressing the barrel of the gun into his temple again, the same temple that had just been hit with the same gun less than two minutes ago. Roman felt a sharp pain boring into his skull and wondered if that whack had done more damage than he thought. "C'mon, big guy, best friend of mine, let's go out to the balcony."

The door to the balcony was close to the bed. Dean dragged Roman over to it, gun still to his head. "Open it," he ordered.

Roman did as requested, a surge of hope rising in him. Maybe, just maybe, someone would be outside, look up, and see what was happening and get help. That thought was quickly followed by another. Yeah, so the cops come and what? He shoots me and himself before they can do anything? Great.

As Jon pushed him out on the tiny balcony, the cold night air hit him almost like another whack, but this one to his entire body. He was only wearing boxers, Jon was wearing jeans and a hooded sweat shirt over some type of T-shirt.

Jon looked at him and laughed, a short, barking laugh. "You must be freezing."

"Yes," Roman said. There wasn't any point in disagreeing.

"Florida boy, not used to the cold?" Jon taunted. "Poor, baby."

"Jon, it's probably 30 degrees, maybe even colder," Roman reminded him, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "I'm wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, anyone would be cold in this weather."

"Yeah, but it's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Jon looked up at the night sky, which was remarkably bright and peppered with stars.

"I guess," Roman reluctantly agreed. Jon still had the gun to his temple, still pressing it into his skin and his body didn't know what to be more upset about, the gun or the cold. He looked out into the night, the balcony overlooked the parking lot and he scanned it for people, but it was deserted.

"It should be raining," Jon said, as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. With obvious practice, he was able to get one out of the box and light it with one hand. Then he laughed, a short, barking laugh. "I don't believe it!" he said. "I don't fucking believe it."

"Believe what?" Roman asked, swallowing hard.

"I came out here to have a smoke," Jon said, still laughing, but that gun was still pressed just as tight to Roman's temple. "I came outside. We're going to be found dead in the morning together, in that hotel room, but I came out-fucking-side to have a smoke. Is that stupid, or what?"

"It's considerate," Roman said, knowing some answer was expected of him, but not wanting to completely agree or disagree. "It's a non smoking room."

"Roman, you're funny," Jon said, but he didn't sound very amused. "Tomorrow, after the cops, after all the bullshit, they are going to need a hazmat team in this room. Because it's going to be a fucking mess. Do you know how much mess blowing your brains out is going to make? And then blowing mine out too? Close range with this gun? Yeah, if your head doesn't just completely explode, a good part of your skull will fracture into a million pieces. Blood and gray matter is going to get everywhere. They'll be picking your teeth out of the carpet for weeks. They aren't going to be able to rent this room for weeks. They may never be able to rent it if word gets out that there was a murder suicide in here. Although, if they let it leak that it was me and you, that might actually draw people to the room. Fans who think they can talk to the dead or some such shit." He took a deep drag from his cigarette. "It should be raining," he said, repeating what he said when they first came out here.

Part of Roman felt Jon expected him to comment, but he said nothing, not knowing if he should address the state the room would be in when-, (If, his thoughts reminded him with a mental scream, If! You have to keep hoping there is a way out of this. If not for you, for Leah and Jessica) the night was through, or if he was supposed to comment on the lack of rain. He stood there, noticing the bottoms of his feet were so numb he couldn't feel them anymore.

"Have you ever noticed on those old horror movies, whenever the shit hits the fan, someone dies or something, if they show the outside, it's always raining?" Jon asked, almost pleasantly, as if they were just making casual conversation. "Always, always, always." He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose.

Roman hadn't watched as many old black and white horror movies as Jon had, but it seemed to him he remembered a few without constant rain. But he decided not to bring this up. He just stood there, gun still pressed to his temple, trying not to shiver as the cold air whipped around him, poking at his skin with icy fingers.

"I want rain," Jon said, in an almost pouting voice, as if he expected that merely requesting rain would cause the skies to open. "There should be rain. This is a very, very, sad night. There should be rain to mark that." He looked up at the heavens. "C'mon Angels and other supreme beings, tonight is the night, Roman Reigns is going to bite the pipe, and leave his beautiful daughter to grow up without a daddy. That's got to be worth a few tears, right?" When the sky continued to be clear, Jon sighed. "Maybe we need to do a rain dance. Do you know a rain dance, Roman?"

Roman shook his head.

"Well, shoot, that's no help," Jon frowned. "Maybe we could make one up?" He stamped his feet a couple times, waving the hand with the cigarette around, but keeping that gun firmly trained on Roman's temple. "Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, c'mon fucking sky and make it rain now," he chanted. Roman didn't move. "Aw, Roman, what's the matter? Don't you wanna rain dance with me?"

"Not really," Roman whispered.

"You are no fun at all," Jon said, but he didn't sound too upset. "Well, I know one way to make it rain." He rolled the end of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and flicked it out over the balcony and into the parking lot. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of money he had used earlier to buy the gun, coffee, and cinnamon-pecan rolls. "This is a lot of money," he said calmly. "When I was growing up, it would have been a motherfucking fortune. But, now? Eh, who cares. I've hit the big time, right?"

"I guess," Roman said. Even though he had drunk the coffee, the cold was starting to make his mind want to shut down. He had been afraid since Jon had pulled out the gun, terrified since Jon smashed his head with it, the adrenaline rush could only last so long and it seemed like they had been out here forever. If this keeps up, I wonder if I'll finally be so tired, I won't care anymore? he thought. Then, a vision of Leah getting that message in the morning popped into his head. "Daddy loves you, Leah. Don't ever forget that." How happy she would be when Jessica told her, "You have a message from Daddy!" And then what she would think when that same phone rang, but it wouldn't be him, it would be the police. "There's been an accident, Ma'am," He had to stay alert, he had to fight this. No matter what Jon/Dean threw at him, he had to stay awake, stay alert and try to find a way out of this.

"Well, since the angels and the sky aren't being cooperative, I'll have to make it rain all on my own," Jon said. If he noticed Roman's lack of enthusiasm for any of this, he made no mention of it. He took the wad of money, flipping it open with one hand. "Yup, money used to be really important to me," He continued. "Money meant my mom could pay rent. Money meant she could buy drugs. Money meant the lights might be on in that shitty apartment we called home or there might be food in the house. Money was awesome. There was a time in my life when I thought money would solve all my problems and make me a better person. When I thought if only I had lots and lots of money, I'd never be unhappy again. I'd never be scared, never be worried, life would be great, if only I had the cash. You know what?"

"What?" He didn't want to whisper, but he just couldn't make his voice any louder. It was like the cold and the fear was eating at his voice. Roman wondered if soon enough he'd be unable to speak at all, only mouth words. And if that did happen, how would Jon react to that?

"I got the cash, but the happiness isn't there. The fear didn't leave completely, and I still worry. Yeah, I've got money now," Jon said, shaking his head. "But no matter how much money you give me, I always have been, and always will be, a scared little ghetto rat who grew up in the projects." As he spoke, his voice rose, not just in anger at himself, but in sorrow too. And he pressed that gun further into Roman's temple. "It's not fair," He exclaimed, "It's not fucking fair! I did everything I could to get away from that. I left home, I got my GED. I worked my ass off to be not just a wrestler, but a damned good one. I made it to the big time, WWE. I got the money," He flipped the wad of money in his hands to punctuate his point, further. "I have it all, but I can never get away from that ghetto rat. I'll always be that ghetto rat. This won't help." He waved the money again. "Only one thing this is good for, gonna make it rain, one way or another. Have my own little rain dance, buddy." And with that, he threw the entire wad of bills up in the air and over the balcony. For a moment, it almost seemed to freeze in the air, then it started falling, separating as it did, the cold wind helping. Like fall leaves, it fluttered to the ground, softly, silently. "Someone's going to have a hell of a great morning," Jon remarked. He looked at Roman. "Got anything to say, big guy?"

"What do you want me to say?" Roman asked.

"Well, I just laid bare part of my soul, you motherfucker," Jon said, his eyes narrowing, his voice getting an even more menacing tone than it had all night. "And all you can do is stand there? Some fucking best friend you are."

"Jon, I'm freezing," Roman said, unable to think of a lie that might appease him, and decided to just be honest. "It's cold as hell out here and I'm standing here in nothing but a pair of boxers, for Christ's sake. I understand, you've had a rough life, and I'm more than happy to talk about it with you, but right now, I just can't think."

Jon sighed. "I'm a shitty friend, aren't I?" he said, shaking his head. "I don't know why you put up with me, Roman. Oh wait, you don't put up with me, you put up with Dean. Dean is your best friend, you couldn't give a fuck about me." Before Roman could answer, Jon grabbed him by the arm and spun him around so he was facing the sliding door, which was still open. "Let's get you inside, you fucking pussy," he muttered. He slipped behind him in a flash, raised his booted foot, and kicked him in the small of his back and not gently, either. Unprepared, Roman few forward, sprawling in the doorway. Jon laughed as Roman scrambled to his feet. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall, right, Roman?" He walked into the room, behind Roman, gun still trained on him.

End of Pt. II

Author's notes: Yeah, I warned you... gritty. Dean/Jon isn't being very nice right now.

AnonForNow I'm glad you're interested and I hope when you read this, you're still interested. Thank you for your review!

Just A Reader Yes, writers block sucks. I don't know what I would have done if I didn't get this challenge. While this isn't the story I was hoping to write, I do have to admit, it wasn't as painful to swim in the dark side of the pool as I thought it might be.

Iremmy As you can see, there is more. And more still to come. And, it will get even darker and scarier. I'm glad you liked it though.

To everyone else who reviewed? I know I thanked you all personally, but I still want to thank you here, in public. Your reviews mean a whole lot to me.