Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), AU, Homelessness, Direct follow on from Xmas Carols chapter 9 - Carol of the Bells.


Perception is a skewed thing in the world of the scurriers. For them what they perceive is more important than what is true. As a member of the homeless looking like a member of the homeless, Dean would have been thrown out of this nice, clean store. The perception of him clad in thick layers, with spots of duct tape here and there to keep the cold out, was that he would try to shoplift, that he'd be trouble in one way or another. Today, however, he's not dressed as member of the homeless. Today he's dressed in a thrift store suit that he picked up cheap, a suit that in a rare stroke of luck fits him well, and is comparatively new. His shoes are shiny, and his hair's a slightly neater than normal fluffy mess. Today, Dean looks like a scurrier, and the other scurriers are treating him as such. The cashier smiles at him, the other customers are polite, and it's strange, horribly strange. In this moment, Dean is deceiving them all into thinking he's one of them when he's not. The reality is Dean's nothing more than a homeless guy in a second-hand suit, but perception is more important than truth, cold hard facts have nothing on what scurriers perceive.

The walk back to the motel always feels strangely like a walk of shame. He's not managed to find a job yet, and each time he goes back to the room without one he feels a little more like he's letting Punk down. He might be trying to be Punk's hero, but Dean's never been able to save himself. It's nothing more than foolish arrogance to believe that he can save Punk, yet he won't stop trying. Punk inspires the need to be more than he is in Dean, the need to be a saviour, a protector. It's a need Dean wants to fulfil again, and again, never heeding the cold hard fact that needs can never be fully satisfied. For Punk Dean will gladly attempt the impossible.

"Hey!" Punk's always there waiting for him, always wearing a smile, always wrapping him up in a warm embrace, always being Dean's home. He's never felt as whole as when he's with Punk. Life is a riddle, and Dean's certain that the solution to that riddle is his relationship with Punk. With Punk by his side, it feels like he could solve any problem life chooses to throw his way.

"Hello." Holding Punk is like finding the toy in the bottom of a cereal box, wrapping his arms around Punk's body is like being handed a first place trophy, and Dean never tires of it. "You get up to anything exciting today?" There's a bag on the sideboard in the room, a big plastic bag that looks full, and Dean's not sure what Punk could have been out buying. The bag itself is printed with some unknown store's logo, something that looks expensive, which is totally at odds with Punk's nature. Dean wanders over to the bag, and starts rooting through it. "Humus?" He holds up a small tub, and Punk shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips.

"I went to see the doctor today. We had a chat, he gave me humus." Punk laughs, and comes over to Dean, plastering himself against Dean's back. "I like you in a suit... You look classy." Punk starts pressing soft little kisses to the back of Dean's neck. He seems far stronger than he has over the last few days, far more awake, and more likely to stay that way, but still delicate, still fragile. As nice as Punk's kisses are, Dean knows he's not recovered enough for Dean to return those more exploratory pecks.

"Classy, but still unemployed. Carrot sticks, celery... I don't even know what this is." Dean holds up another little tub, the scrawl on the lid is smudged making it hard to read. "So, did the doctor say anything interesting?" Dean piles the food back in the bag, and turns in Punk's arms, drawing him into a carefully delicate kiss.

"I wrote the important stuff down." Punk grins, and fishes a small sheet of paper from his pocket. His large, carefully formed handwriting is easy to read, but strangely young looking. The perception of this person who wrote the words on this piece of paper would be that they were a child writing in with their best letters, not of a fully-grown man.

"October twenty-sixth, huh Philip?" Dean chuckles, and Punk pulls an ugly face.

"Don't call me that." He snaps, stepping away from and around Dean to grab the humus and carrot sticks out of the bag. "Scott told me that I never liked my name... Philip Jack Brooks... I don't think I'm a Philip." Punk grins as he sits on the bed. "Grab the celery, and come tell me about your day." Punk pats the bed beside him. "I've missed you." The perception of how Punk said that is that it's little more than a flippant comment designed to make Dean happy, but the truth is that Punk meant it earnestly. Punk worries about being left alone, Dean knows he does, and whilst the last thing he wants is to leave Punk for any length of time, he needs to find a job to keep them housed. Being on his own is something Punk's going to have to get used to. Dean may have to leave for work, but he'll always return home to Punk. His being alone won't be permanent, Dean won't let it be.

"I missed you too." Dean grabs the celery, and the unknown tub, determined to find out what's inside it. "Today... Well, I bought a cell phone." Punk raises an eyebrow, and Dean shakes his head slightly. "Pay as you go, it's cheap. I thought it'd be a good idea."

"Yeah, probably." Punk concedes, and starts eating the carrot stick that he'd dunked in the humus.

"I put in some applications at a few stores nearby, a restaurant, and every bar I walked past... It's all a matter of waiting now." Dean's never really been a big fan of celery, but the humus is pretty good, and covers the odd taste of the vegetable well enough, so he keeps eating it, not yet brave enough for the unknown tub. "So, your birthday, your name, and some humus... Did you get anything else out of the good doctor?"

"That I went to college." Punk mumbles, and lies down, his hand rubbing at the scar on his forehead. "And a headache." Punk laughs quietly, and Dean reaches over to stroke his hair. "I don't remember anything about him, but he remembers me, Dean... He knows me, or at least he knew me when I was in college, and I don't even know what the fuck I was studying." Punk's eyes drift closed, and Dean shifts the food off the bed onto the table beside it, then lies down beside Punk, cradling him close. "I had to have had a goal, a reason for studying something, but I don't even know what my major was... I had to have been smart. I had to have had money, a house, a family... I was a real person once, Dean, and what am I now?" Punk snuggles against him tightly, his face pressed against Dean's chest firmly. "Now, I only just found out my name. I only just found out what day I was born, but I didn't think to ask what year. I... All I have is you." Punk sounds slightly awed as he mumbles that last statement. It would be easy to perceive the all I have is you as an insult, but that perception would be wrong. All I have is you is an endearment, the highest endearment Punk can offer. All he has, all he wants, all he needs is Dean. Punk wants Dean to be his hero, so Dean tries. It's all perception, honest perception of cold hard facts, there's no deception, no skewing of reality between them.

"Will you talk to him again?" Dean kisses Punk's hair, stroking his back over the thick layers of clothing Punk's wearing. He's still dressed like a member of the homeless despite their tenuous housing, but he's not really had the time or energy to go pick out more scurrier style clothing.

"No... Well maybe..." Punk sighs, and shakes his head suddenly. "Yes, next week." His tone is oddly firm, and Dean pulls away from him slightly so he can see Punk's face. "I'm going to talk to him next week. I'll ask what year I was born in... I want to know how much older than you I am." He smiles slightly. Dean shakes his head at him, and presses a quick kiss to his scar.

"I don't care if you're my sugar daddy, Punk." Dean chuckles, and pulls Punk in close once more. "Did he... Did he say how he knew you? Why he wasn't at the hospital?"

"I said." Punk scoffs softly, and rolls his eyes. "We meet in college, we were roommates. Something happened... We had a falling out, and didn't talk after graduation." Punk sounds like there's something on his mind about this, but it might be merely perception, because there's always something on Punk's mind, and he'll share when he thinks it's important.

"So I don't need to worry about him stealing you away?" Dean laughs, and Punk snorts disdainfully, shaking his head.

"No one could steal me away, Dean, no one." The conviction in Punk's voice is astounding, and Dean can't think of any way to reply to that comment.

The next morning Dean's back out looking for work, leaving Punk with a soft kiss, and a promise to check back in around lunchtime. Dean's no idea what Punk intends to do with his day. He'll be on his own the whole time, and there's a part of Dean's that's concerned that Punk'll get lonely, but there's nothing to be done. Dean needs to find work, and Punk's a fully-grown man.

He'd checked the money before he'd left, and the roll of bills is sorely depleted. Finding work is a priority, there's not enough money to last much longer even with the deal he'd managed to strike up with the hotel management. Dean needs to find a job by the end of the week, it's imperative, but that day he returns empty handed. The next day passes much the same until it's Thursday, leaving only tomorrow, Friday, as the last day. They've enough money to cover the next week, and that's it. Tomorrow Dean needs some job, any paying job to keep them afloat.

That night, Dean curls up by Punk, and worries about their situation, worries about money, about finding a job, about keeping Punk safe, about Punk in general. All evening Punk had been quiet, and distant. His mind is clearly preoccupied with the little information he gained from the doctor. Dean understands that learning even a little about himself is confounding for Punk, but he wishes Punk was more at peace with this sliver information about himself. He seems unable to reconcile the fact that the information about Phil is also about Punk. Dean's no idea how to help him, no idea how to help meld the two together, so all he does is lie holding Punk close, stroking his back, wishing to be more helpful to him. It hurts knowing that there's nothing Dean can do to help Punk with this. It's a problem Punk has to face on his own, and the only person who can help him is the doctor. This isn't something Dean is in any way able to be of use in, and it's infuriating. He always wants to be the one to help Punk, but when it comes to his past, Dean's beyond worthless.

That morning after leaving the motel room, with Punk still asleep, Dean heads to the library to start trawling through online jobsites. He's not hopeful of finding something on the Internet, but he figures it won't hurt to look. There's never any harm in just looking. The cell chirps suddenly, and Dean answers after checking the number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Mr Dean Ambrose?" The voice on the other end of the line is slightly high pitched, and nasal. The accent isn't familiar to Dean, and he doesn't recognise the number, but he supposes it's one of the numerous places he's applied to for a job.

"It is. How can I help?" It feels like he asked the wrong question, because the other person laughs, a grating little sound that has Dean clenching his teeth.

"I'm calling to invite you down for an interview." The person says, and then laughs again. "Sorry, I should have said earlier, I'm Seth Rollins, from The Shield nightclub." Dean's eyes narrow as he tries to remember which of the many nightclubs and bars that he's applied to that one is. "The gay bar?" He apparently had been silent too long, and he can feel the back of his neck heating up in embarrassment.

"Yeah, of course I remember." Dean mumbles, wishing he'd made better notes of where he'd left his pitifully small resume.

"Great! Then I'd like for you to come down as soon as you can. Your resume said you were available immediately, and were bar trained." There's an awkward pause, and Dean's not sure how to break it when it lasts a little longer than he's comfortable with. "I won't lie, this isn't an interview. It's a hiring. We're screwed, the last bar tender didn't work out, and we're booked for a big wedding party tonight, and we're basically taking on everyone. There's no guarantee of a job after tonight, but there's at least one solid paycheque in it for you. Come down as soon as you can, and we'll start training you on the cocktails."

"I'll be there by twelve." Dean's already on his feet, and leaving the library. One paycheque isn't much, but if he does a good job, he might get hired permanently, and even if he doesn't it's something else to add to the resume, as well as some more money to add to the pitifully small amount he and Punk have left.

Dean arrives at the club a little after eleven-thirty. The place is brightly lit, the walls painted a dark grey, the floor black, though the elevated dance podiums are starkly white with gleaming silver cages on top. At night with all the bright lights switched off, it must be a very dark, but Dean supposes that's what scurriers like in their nightclubs. It's easier to persuade people into the perception you want them to have when they can't really see you in the first place.

"Mr Ambrose? Hello!" The voice from the phone greets Dean as he wanders through the seemingly empty club. "C'mon in, and we'll get you fitted up for a uniform." The face to go with the voice isn't familiar to Dean, but he's not been paying too much attention to the faces of the people he's been dropping resumes off with. The man's grinning at him, gesturing for Dean to follow him. "So, once you're all in the gear, we'll get started on teaching you the speciality cocktails. Most people order the normal stuff... We've a big sex on the beach market." He laughs, and Dean wonders if he's expecting an answer in amongst his rambling. "But, there's a lot who really go for the house specials... The Cerberus is very popular, and the Triple Power-bomb shot always sells well. It's a layered shot, so you've gotta be careful, can't let the layers be all droopy." He laughs again, and Dean bites back a noise of frustration. This man is clearly fond of the sound of his own voice.

"Mr Rollins?" Dean interrupts before he can keep talking.

"Huh?" He holds open a door, waving Dean through it into what looks like a locker room. "What is it?"

"I'm just wondering when I start-"

"And when you finish no doubt? And it's Seth... Mr Rollins is too-"

"Professional?" Another voice cuts in, a smooth baritone that's laced with amusement. "You'll have to excuse Seth. He's rather fond of the sound of his own voice." The new comer sticks his hand out, and Dean looks him over quickly. He's tall, with rich golden skin, thick luxurious hair, deep brown eyes, and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. "I'm Roman. Roman Reigns, co-owner of this place." Dean takes Roman's hand, and shakes it quickly once.

"Dean Ambrose, one-night only but hoping for more bar tender in this place." Dean laughs uneasily, wishing he'd said something a little smoother, or at least less like a haplessly cheesy chat-up line.

"Hoping for more, eh?" Roman smirks, and Dean glances away. He'd hoped this guy would have let him away with that slip, but apparently not. "Well, I guess we'll see based on your performance tonight." He turns away from Dean to Seth, a look of mild annoyance crossing his face. "Where's his uniform?"

"I was just going to ask his size, Ro." Seth sneers sharply, and Dean feels desperately uncomfortable with their squabbling, but he needs this job, he needs it for as long as possible, so he's going to have to deal with these two.

"Those shoulders definitely need a large, that ass too... But that itty-bitty waist?" Roman chuckles, and Dean clears his throat.

"Uh... I'll help you look?" He offers to Seth. Surprisingly, all Seth does is nod, and lead Dean over to a closet. Inside there's a selection of what looks like dress-up riot gear that Dean supposes is the uniform for the bar, but the pants look at little too tight, and the tactical vests a little too small to be very useful in a shoot-out.

Once he's kitted out in the right attire, Seth leads Dean back through to the bar. The few cocktails he shows Dean are fairly complex, but Dean's determined to remember them. This is the first, and only job that's called him back, and if they need someone long-term Dean intends to make sure it's him they keep. A few other one night only staffers arrive a little after three, and Seth seems to revel in having a larger audience for his ramblings. Roman remains silently pottering around the club, his eye flickering over to Dean every so often. There's an edge to his gaze that makes Dean feel fidgety. There's a heat in those eyes that Dean isn't sure if he likes being directed at him. It all makes him think of Punk lying in a motel bed alone. Thoughts Dean needs to chase from his mind so he can focus on listening to Seth's increasingly meandering orientation speech.

At about five o'clock, Seth announces that they have two hours to go grab something eat. Dean's sure he wouldn't be able to make it to the motel and back in that time, but he's also sure he wants to talk to Punk if he can't see him. There's one number saved in the cheap cell phone he bought, and that's the motel's reception. He dials, and requests to be put through to the room he shares with Punk.

"Hello?" Punk sounds understandably confused, and Dean closes his eyes trying to picture the expression on Punk's face.

"Hey baby." Dean murmurs quietly. He's sitting in a cheap little restaurant near the nightclub, a plate of the cheapest meal on the menu in front of him, and a glass of tap water, but it's nowhere near as interesting as hearing Punk's softly confused voice.

"Dean? What's wrong? Why aren't you home?" A smile spreads over Dean's lips at Punk calling the motel room home. That's the only reason he's working in this bar, that's the only reason he's going to put on the silly uniform and flirt his ass off to make the customers buy more drinks from him than anyone else. Punk deserves a home, and whilst for now it's a crappy little motel room with more significance than Punk realises, one day it'll be an apartment, then maybe a real house. Dean intends to work until they've secured a home they can be both be proud of, one day the little lean-to shack by a park wall they slept in will be nothing but a hazy nightmare, not the reality of a few weeks ago.

"I've got a job. It's o-"

"A job? Dean, that's great! I'm proud." Punk sounds genuinely proud of him, and Dean can feel a beaming grin stretching his lips.

"It's not much, just bartending for the night, but it's a start." Dean opens his eyes once more to look at his food. It's not the most appetising looking fare, but he needs to eat it so he can make it through the night.

"It's a job though, so it's a good start. You'll be back late, won't you?" Punk trails off, a heavy silence coming from over the phone for a few seconds. "I'll make sure to keep your side of the bed nice and warm for when you're home." He sounds like he's forcing himself to sound upbeat, and Dean forces his mouthful of food down.

"Punk... I'll be home, you know that." Dean keeps his voice soft and even, filling it with reassurance, but Punk's not an easy creature to placate sometimes. There are times when his fears get the best of him. Punk's fear of being abandoned kept Dean from accepting offers of overnight work from johns when they'd been on the streets. His fear of being abandoned kept Dean from searching too far for food when Punk had been too sick to walk. Punk's fear of being abandoned keeps Dean close to him, but it's not a tether, it's not a cage trapping Dean, rather it's a fear that lets Dean indulge his own fear of not being enough. His whole life he's been painted with the perception that he's not enough. Not smart enough, not clean enough, not attractive enough, not good enough, but for Punk he's everything. For Punk Dean's perfect, and Dean clings to Punk because of that.

"You said for the night? Do they only need you tonight? Isn't there the chance of any more nights?" Punk seems to be forging ahead with trying to hide his anxiety, and Dean knows better than to push him. If you push Punk to open up, he'll clam up instead, and won't say anything for days.

"Maybe. I'll need to be impressive tonight though, so I'm worrying about it first." Dean laughs, and the laugh Punk gives in returns is halfway believable.

"You're always impressive, Dean. No worries there. When do you start?" There's a rustling sound over the phone, and Dean supposes that's Punk opening something to eat, probably a pot of instant noodles, which sound about as appetising as Dean's plate of vaguely recognisable mush.

"Seven sharp. I'm gonna finish up eating, and then go. Be asleep when I get home, okay?" Dean takes another bite of food, washing it down with some water.

"Dean... I'm always asleep." Punk laughs, and Dean smiles slightly to himself.

"You're still healing, Punk. Sleep is very important to your recovery." Punk scoffs at Dean's words, a low unimpressed sound.

"I'm sick of being asleep. You'll be tired tomorrow though, so I guess I'll take advantage of my sleepiness to get to cuddle you all day." Punk chuckles to himself softly, and Dean laughs along with him, pretending to ignore the slightly forced edge to Punk's laugh.

"Like I'd let you not cuddle me all day." Dean finishes up his food, and glances at the clock on the wall opposite. He should head back to the club; it's almost time to start his first, and hopefully not only, shift.

"Have fun at work, honey." This statement Dean perceives as being given more honestly than several other things Punk's said in this phone call, he does at least really want Dean to enjoy his work.

"I'll try." Dean downs the glass of water, and stands, tossing a few bills down to cover the cheque, and a modest tip for the waitress. "I should get going. Get some more rest. I'll be home before you know it."

"Yeah... Not likely, Dean." The perception of that comment has Dean aching to be at home, longing to bundle Punk up in his arms, but that's impossible. He needs to be where he is, he needs this job. "I'll be waiting to hear all about your first day."

"I gotta go, baby. I love you, and I'll be home soon as I can." Dean dodges his way across the street, pausing outside the nightclub.

"I know... Good luck, and Dean, I love you too." There's no way to misperceive Punk's final words. There's no way to skew them, not that Dean would try though, because there's no way to skew cold hard facts.


Many thanks to - littleone1389, Brokenspell77, VKxXx92, Guest, Rebellecherry, and Guest.

I really can't fall asleep for some reason... so I wrote this chapter up, mayhaps I'll sleep now it's not on my mind.

If you read, please review - even a few words truly keeps me motivated!