One week later, a few hours before the taping, Dean has an incident.

Surprisingly, Seth is not the cause of the incident, initially. Seth's been ignoring him for the past couple of days, still pissed about Dean's interference in his match against Damien Sandow to defend the FCW 15 Championship that resulted in him losing by disqualification (because of Dean interfering, no less).

Even when Dean has attempted to converse with him since then, attempting to provoke him, all Dean has received are icy stares, a scowl ever present on Seth's face.

It makes Dean clutch his chest in mock pain and cry out "Oh, you're killing me, Sethie, you're so cold!" but even that doesn't earn a response. Dean actually misses the insults Seth used to hurl at him.

None of that's really on his mind as he prepares for his match against Seth. It's not for another couple hours, but Dean hopes to spend most of the time getting ready, and then spend maybe a half-hour trying to provoke Seth. It's been forever since they last had a match (not really, it's been two weeks), and Dean wants this one to be great.

Not that the rest haven't been great, but their best matches seem to occur only after Dean purposely provokes Seth, trying to get in his head. It's like Seth lashes out with every fiber of his being, and being in the ring with him is… well, electric.

That's what Dean wants. The electricity that had become so familiar to him by now, yet never any less exhilarating than the last.

So Dean busies himself by getting ready; he bounces around on the balls of his feet, rolls his neck, cracks his knuckles, throws jabs at an imaginary opponent. No one else in the locker room is paying him any attention, used to what they consider as his "weird habits."

He stops bouncing around for a moment to rifle through his bag, looking for the water bottle he always has stored in there. A frown creases his face when he doesn't immediately find it, and he proceeds to search through the bag a second time, knowing it has to be in there – he distinctly remembers placing it in his bag before he left to head to the taping – but still not finding it.

In typical Ambrose fashion, he picks up his bag, opens it, and turns it upside down, dumping all its contents unceremoniously on the bench in front of him. He rifles through everything that falls out, doing a mental checklist of what should be in there as compared to what he finds. Spare clothes, check. Phone, check. Athletic tape, check. One of Seth's hair ties, check. His water bottle is still missing, but that's not what concerns him the most.

His medicine is missing.

Dean will never admit to anyone that he has problems; his head's fucked, legitimately, and his past is so dark it might as well be a fuckin' soap opera. He's been prescribed medicine to try to control how fucked things get in his head, but he rarely takes the medicine. It makes him feel numb, detached, and that numb, detached feeling is hard to overcome in the ring. So he rarely takes the medicine, but he likes to know he has the option to, likes to know that if he wants to, he can choose not to feel anything.

So when he discovers his medicine is missing, all rational behavior goes out the window, and he panics.

His chest feels like it's compressing in on itself, and he tries to breathe but he can't, he can't, when the fuck did breathing get so hard, and his hand flutters near his throat like he's being choked by some invisible entity, and he can't breathe.

"Dean? Are you okay?" It registers in the back of his mind that the voice belongs to Roman; Dean had seen him not long ago in the locker room, Roman must've seen the panic in his eyes just now and apparently came over to see what was wrong, but Dean can't answer him.

He can't even remember to breathe, much less talk, and so he's mostly silent, little hitching breaths like hiccups making their way out of him, but they hurt, and Dean's eyes are wide, because he doesn't know what the fuck is going on, or what to do, or how to stop it.

"Dean?" Roman's face comes into his line of vision now, concern etched across his face, and Dean wants to calm the fuck down and say "I'm fine, chill out, Rome," but he doesn't know how to.

Apparently Roman knows what the fuck's going on, because his tone shifts into something more authoritative, but at the same time impossibly calming. "Dean. Look at me."

That's the one thing Dean can do right now, and he slowly shifts his gaze until his eyes lock with Roman's. He's vaguely aware of Roman taking one of his hands and placing it on Roman's chest, right over his sternum. Roman's hand is warm over his, a subtly comforting pressure.

"I want you to breathe, okay? Breathe for me. Like this," Roman says, and takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly, letting Dean feel the rise and fall of his chest.

Dean wants to yell "I can't, I can't fucking breathe, Roman!" because it hurts to even try to breathe, but he tries. He tries his damnedest, forcing himself to suck air into his lungs, forcing himself to mimic Roman.

After what feels like an eternity, it's easier for him to breathe, the pressure on his chest slowly dissipating, but he still trembles, and he's not sure he can speak.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Roman asks quietly, as if he can read Dean's thoughts. Dean mulls it over; on the one hand, he risks telling Roman all about his mental problems, and having Roman laugh at him and then tell the whole roster, so they can say 'Ambrose is actually insane, don't know how the fuck he thinks he stands a chance here', but on the other hand, he doesn't think Roman's like that. He barely knows Roman, but there's already a small part of Dean that trusts him.

That frightens him.

Roman's face softens as he watches Dean contemplate, as if he's personally witnessing the argument going on inside Dean's head, as if he can hear every word of it. "I just want to help you."

Dean can hear the sincerity in Roman's voice, and he's never been a very good judge of character, but at that point he says fuck it and gives in.

His first attempt at telling Roman what happened results in an incoherent mumble. Roman gives him a soft smile and says "Sorry, but I can't hear you." Roman even makes a point to lean in, as if that'll make it easier for him.

Dean finds himself wondering who the fuck ever allowed Roman Reigns to exist.

His second attempt is a little better, but he can't bring himself to a full explanation. So he just mutters "My medicine," hoping that's good enough.

"Your what?"

Dean presses the index finger of his free hand to his lips in a shushing motion, really not wanting anyone else to hear their conversation. Even though probably half the roster heard him losing his shit only a few minutes before. He wouldn't be surprised if they were eavesdropping.

He licks his lips and tries desperately to ignore how Roman's thumb is stroking over the back of his hand, still pressed to Roman's chest.

"Medicine."

Roman's expression doesn't change; Dean doesn't get the look of disgust or even confusion that he was expecting. But all Dean sees is a soft, almost fond gaze.

"Okay. And what about it?"

Dean silently thanks him for not repeating the word.

"'S gone."

"Gone how?"

"I put it in my bag before I came here… 'n now it's not there. Like someone stole it." He finds his ability to form coherent sentences coming back slowly, his body somehow relaxing under Roman's touch.

Dean's questioning how the hell that can be, but he's got more pressing issues at hand, so he buries that thought for the time being.

"You think someone stole it?"

"Uh-huh."

That's when Dean catches something in Roman's eyes shift; he swears he sees a flash of anger, and Dean doesn't understand it, but he's not gonna question it.

"C'mon," Roman says, turning abruptly, dropping his hand from his chest (and with it, Dean's hand), and startling Dean by lacing their fingers together.

He doesn't really feel up to protesting, though, so he allows it. "Where're we goin'?" Dean asks as Roman starts gently pulling him along, half-hidden like a shadow.

"To get your thing back."

Dean realizes a second too late that they're heading for Seth, who's oblivious, humming something under his breath while putting on one of his stupid band shirts. Dean struggles to get away, harboring no desire to see Seth in this state, but Roman tightens his grip and doesn't let him get away. When Roman stops in his tracks, only a couple feet away from Seth, Dean sighs and presses his face into Roman's shoulder, grumbling under his breath.

"Seth," Roman says, his voice firm, unrelenting. Seth turns, confused.

"Oh, uh, hey, Leakee… Dean," Seth says slowly, cautiously, like he expects Roman and Dean to start beating the hell out of him right then and there. Dean personally thinks that sounds like a hell of a good time, but he chooses not to voice that thought. "Can I help you?"

Roman says nothing, just holds his hand out flat, palm up. Seth's eyes move to Roman's hand and then back to his eyes, questioning.

"What?"

"You got something that belongs to Dean. You best give it back… or else things are going to get real ugly."

Dean actually smiles, trying his best to hide it in the skin of Roman's shoulder.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't. Hand it over."

"Leakee—"

"Now."

Dean raises his head, peeks out from behind Roman to watch Seth, who immediately gives up when Roman brings out his threatening tone. Seth opens his locker and digs through it until he finds what Roman's asking for; an average-sized orange pill bottle. He hands it to Roman, who hands it to Dean without a second glance. Dean shoves it in his jacket pocket hastily and disentangles his fingers from Roman's.

Dean spots a water bottle sitting on the bench, next to what's presumably Seth's phone, and his eyes narrow as he realizes Seth also stole his water bottle. Dean snatches the water bottle, opens it up and takes a sip, feeling Roman and Seth's eyes on him all the while.

He pretends to swallow the water he has in his mouth, then proceeds to spit it into Seth's face. Seth instinctively flinches and raises a hand to block it, but it's too late. Dean pours the rest of the water on him, too, just for good measure, and then flings the bottle at Seth's face. Seth is spluttering, droplets of water falling from his hair and trickling down his chest. Dean can hear Roman chuckling, and he almost smiles again, sinking his teeth into his lip at the last second to mask it as a smirk.

"Karma always comes to bite ya in the ass, doesn't it?" Dean asks, his eyes sweeping up and down the length of Seth's body. "If you ever take that again…" and here, the tone of his voice changes, becoming deadly serious, "I'll personally make sure there'll be hell to pay. See ya, Sethie," Dean says, saluting him, then turning and heading back to his things on the other side of the locker room.

He's still got a match to get ready for, and he intends to make Seth wish he'd never stolen Dean's medicine in the first place.