Forgot how much I hate flying.
Dean was a trembling mess. That was made clear when he missed the seatbelt latch three times before finally buckling it securely. He pressed his head against the seat and took each breath in like a shot of whiskey: down and quick.
"Something's wrong," Roman said beside him. "You're freaking out."
Yeah, thanks for noticing. "It's just been a while since—" Dean stopped mid-sentence. Maybe it had been years since Dean Winchester travelled on a plane, but Dean Ambrose was apparently used to frequent flying. "Since, uh, since I drank that much."
Roman bobbed his head. "So you did get drunk."
"Yeah. Minibar. I don't know, I guess I just got nervous about tonight. I know that never happens to me, but something just…didn't feel right. Felt really nervous about my…match. And I wanted to drink alone, because I didn't want you to worry about me."
Roman cocked a smile. "Of course I'm gonna worry about you, especially if you're hiding away like that. We could have worked something out. Gone for a run. Anything to take your mind off it."
"Well, now it's all I can think about." Dean hated lying to Roman. He felt Ambrose and this guy weren't the type to keep secrets from one another. Not like me and Sam, something told him, and his mind blackened from the guilt of it.
"You'll do great, Dean. It's like Randy said. Maybe he won't even show up."
"Randy?" Ah. That must have been RKO. "Right. He knows what he's talking about. He's a great…wrestler. I know that about him."
Roman's head bobbed again, trying to follow along with the prattling. "Right."
"I'll be fine, Roman. Don't worry about me." Not fighting tonight, but yeah, should be fine. Maybe Sam could track down the witches and reverse this Freaky Friday spell before Dean had to step into the ring. Then Ambrose could have his time with this Owens character, and Winchester would be back in his awesome, screwed-up existence as a hunter.
He had to chuckle inwardly at the idea. He didn't have that kind of luck, no matter whose life he was living.
What should have been just under a three-hour flight felt like seven or eight. In times of turbulence, Dean felt Roman grab his arm when he started to shake. Roman was a caring friend, a devoted individual. Dean fancied himself a people-reader, but Roman, he had figured out easier than If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. A hard worker. Dedicated. Purpose-driven. But he could sometimes put others above his own needs, something that looked nice on the outside but could really bite you in the ass eventually.
He wasn't vulnerable, just…straightforward.
When the plane landed and the pilot read off the time and temperature outside, Dean released a breath he felt he'd been holding the entire flight. "Still feel sick?" Roman asked beside him.
"Nah. I feel a little better. Thanks for watching out for me."
"Of course. We're brothers."
Brothers? Dean found it hard to believe. Genetically, anyway. Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns looked nothing a lot. Perhaps he meant it in a different sense. Family. Close. They loved the hell out of each other.
Dean could relate in a couple of very specific ways.
Airports are a bitch.
It took nearly an hour to get out of the damn place. Dean was able to use his fake hangover to share a rental car with Roman, who drove them to the Hotel Beaux Arts, which according to Roman was only a six-minute drive from American Airlines Arena, where Raw would be taped that night. Dean had a hard time processing all the information, so he nodded along to every word.
Much like the last place, Hotel Beaux Arts was ten times as costly and a hundred-thousand times bigger than any cheap holes he and Sammy ever boarded in. Not that he had time to appreciate the grandeur. No sooner were they checked in than were they back in the car on the way to the arena.
Match is coming up pretty quick and I need to bail ASAP.
"Uh, Roman?" Dean tried inside the arena. They'd entered through a side door. Crowd were already gathering in crooked lines around the front of the stadium. The air was dense with body odor and the day's heat.
"What's up?" Roman seemed to have an idea of where they were going.
"I don't think I can fight tonight."
Roman's eyebrow curved. "You don't?"
Just buy it. Just believe me. You trust this guy, right? "No. I really don't. I dunno, something is just…off in me. Like I got the yips or something. I just have this aching feeling that if I fight tonight, I ain't gonna make it out okay. I'll lose."
Roman rounded his steps to a halt, turning to face him. "You're serious."
"Unfortunately."
"This isn't you. This is…it can't even be the alcohol talking. Dean, what's going on?"
"I'm just not feeling like…myself today." God, I want to punch myself in the face for how lame that is.
"Sick still?"
"I guess—"
"Dean, something's going on. Don't tell me it's the booze. Don't tell me you're sick unless it's the truth. We're family, dude. You know me better than I know myself. And I'd like to think I know you pretty well, too. So just tell me what's going on." He was firm yet altruistic.
But he couldn't handle the truth. No way.
"Roman, I mean it when I say I'm not myself today. I can't—"
"Well, well, well. Look who finally showed up to the party."
A robust man with spiked brown hair, matching beard and narrow eyes ambled towards Roman and Dean. A white and gold belt was draped over his shoulder. He wore a black muscle shirt with torn sleeves and the letters "KO" on the chest like the Superman symbol. Dean made a face. KO. Kevin Owens?
This is the guy he was supposed to fight?
Nope. No, no, no, no way in hell.
Roman folded his arms over his chest. "No jazz before the match, Owens. You know the rules."
Yep. This was him.
Nope. Dean was not fighting him.
Owens snorted. "Like anyone follows rules around here." He concentrated his vision on Dean. Dean got mad just looking at the guy. "Especially not your adorable little lunatic here."
"Just back up, man," Dean said. "I ain't feeling so hot."
"Can't blame you. You feel a chill down your spine? Little queasiness in your stomach? Little shiver in your muscles? That's me, Ambrose. And you can't overcome it. Might as well parachute to safety while you can, because you're not getting your hands on this. And your buddy Roman sure as hell won't be able to help you. All he'll be able to do is watch as I tear you apart."
Roman had been right about the cocky attitude. It was irritating. "You know what? This isn't really my scene. Why don't I just let you guys do your thing and I'll see you later—" Dean tried to step away, but Owens blocked his path.
"No. Can't get away that easy. You brought this onto yourself after what you said to me last week. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away? Those were some pretty harsh words, Ambrose, and like I told you before, you will regret it. So you better be ready to step up. Be a man. Take what's coming to you."
"Whatever I said was probably not me even talking," Dean said, unsure if this was true or not. "I mean, I'm supposed to be a lunatic, right? Ain't my fault if I run my mouth and you decide to take a couple of things personally."
Owens's nostrils flared. What was his deal? "You think you're hot shit, don't you? You think you can just walk the world and everyone will bow to the glory, glory hallelujah that is Dean Ambrose." Owens expanded his arms wide to indicate renown. Wide open for an attack...but Dean maintained his self-control. "Let me tell you something. You aren't shit. The world isn't buying your act, and neither am I. I will end it. I will end you."
"Back off, Owens." Roman took a step forward, pressing his figure against Owens, his face so close that their foreheads were nearly touching. Owens just looked Roman up and down with condescension, a little smirk, a scoff past his lips. He was vexing Dean just looking at the guy. "I ain't in the match, so I don't have a thing to lose by knocking your teeth out of your mouth right here, right now."
"Try it, Roman. See what happens. Just remember. You may not be in this match, but don't you have a title of your own to defend later tonight? Wouldn't want you to be too sore to participate in that one, would we?"
He was antagonizing Dean so much, Dean was truly feeling a shiver in his muscles…a shake of rage. "You ain't touching him," Dean said, joining Roman at his side to stare Owens down. "Whatever we've got going on between us, Kev, is between you and me. You don't threaten him, you hear me? Or I swear to God, you'll regret it." Dean was a protector, not the protected. He was raised to stand up for himself and for others, not for anyone to make sacrifices on his behalf. Sam might have been an exception on occasion.
Owens blinked at the unexpected nickname. Then he laughed. "Thank God. For a second, I thought Ambrose had come to his senses, and I'd be out of a match tonight. But no. You're still reckless. You're still a psycho. You try to play yourself off as this riddle, this conundrum, but I've got you all figured out, boy."
"Don't you 'boy' me, Kevin."
"Don't you 'Kevin' me, Dean." Kevin pressed a finger into Dean's shoulder, then retracted his hand before Dean could take hold of it and bend it till it snapped. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"A lot, apparently. So listen up. Turn around. Walk away. Right now. And there won't be any trouble."
Kevin chuckled again, looking down, shaking his head. Without warning he smashed a fist into Dean's jaw. Stars lit to life in Dean's vision, and he stumbled to the side.
Roman was on Owens before the attack could progress. The two knocked each other to the floor, trading blows to the stomach, the face, the ribs. Dean fought to stand up straight, head still muzzy. He had to get in there. Help Roman out.
Before he retained enough balance to enter the brawl, a team of security guards were jerking them apart. Roman was unsettled, and the guards struggled to contain him. Owens, meanwhile, performed a fake and obnoxious sense of calm and levelheadedness. Security let up on him quicker than Roman. He readjusted the belt on his shoulder and smirked at Dean. Dean was ready to jump him right then and there if he wasn't still surrounded by rent-a-cops.
"See you in the ring tonight, boy."
Owens swaggered off down the corridor.
Roman was finally unflustered enough for security to release him. They checked on Dean, making sure he wasn't too damaged, then retreated.
"You okay?" Roman asked.
"I'm fine," Dean said. His tongue ran over a small gash on his lip. He tasted blood. "What the hell's that guy's problem, though?"
"It's Kevin Owens, dude. He's always like this." The way he spoke made it sound like Dean should have known this. And did he know it now, more than ever.
"Well, he ain't getting away with talking all that crap. Taking that cheap shot. Threatening you. Talk about having to step up. He better be ready for me."
"So you're fighting him?" Roman asked, a hopeful smile replacing a vengeful grimace.
Dean nodded against everything inside that screamed in protest. "You bet your ass, I'm fighting him."