Extensive apologies for my absence. Life keeps getting in the way. But here I am to bring you more of this crossover. Dean Winchester's up against more than he might be able to handle, both with the revelation of Rowena's actions, and attending Smackdown where he's got the Authority on his back with some bad news. Enjoy~
It was easier to list off what didn't hurt: his pride.
Everything else? Down for the count.
Dean used Roman as a crutch for a majority of the walk from the car to the hotel. Roman didn't seem to mind. His weight held Dean steady across the lobby, in the elevator, and down the hall, where Roman wished Dean goodnight.
"You don't wanna hang out for a while?" Dean asked, figuring that's the sort of thing Reigns and Ambrose would do after Raw. Close as they were.
"I would, but we should both get some sleep," Roman said, almost like he was apologetic. "Gotta be up early tomorrow."
"You're kidding, right?" Dean groaned. "Where to now?"
"Fort Lauderdale." Roman cocked his head. "For Smackdown?"
What the hell is a Smackdown? "Oh, right, right. Sorry. Head's still catching up with my body." It was amazing how easily lying came to Dean. It was like a second language.
"Do you need me to stay a while? Make sure you get in okay?" Roman offered.
Dean was flattered, but he needed to touch base with Sam soon. Something that should have been done with Roman out of hearing range, now that he thought about it. "Eh, that's alright. I'll soak my muscles and get to bed here soon. Thanks, though."
"Of course, Dean. 'Night."
"Hey, Roman?" Dean asked before Roman turned away. "Uh, this might sound a little crazy coming from me…"
"You're the lunatic fringe, everything sounds crazy coming from you," Roman teased.
Heh heh heh heh heh. Even his inner voice was sarcastic. "Anyway, uh…Dean Ambrose is really lucky to have someone like you to look out for him all the time. Makes a guy feel…pretty good."
Roman smiled. Dean would admit it: he was a handsome chap. "Well," Roman said, "Dean Ambrose is pretty good at making me—er, Roman Reigns, feel the same way."
"Ah, it's nothing." Ambrose deserved to hear this. Dean wished he had a way to record this encounter.
Roman opened his strong arms, and Dean forced himself to be comfortable with hugging anyone else besides Sam and Castiel. Roman's firm grip made his muscles ache, but he felt the sincerity. Roman was a good guy. A wonderful friend to Ambrose.
"I'm proud of you," Roman said. Out of the hug, he tapped the championship belt on Dean's shoulder.
"Thanks. I'm proud of me, too."
It wasn't fair that Winchester was on the receiving end of love and affection not meant for him.
These two needed to reunite.
Sam needed to work fast.
"Good night, Roman."
"'Night, Dean."
Dean unlocked his hotel room and moved inside. With a grunt he stripped of his ragged muscle shirt and blue jeans—Dean assumed it was more comfortable to wrestle in anything but jeans, but Ambrose had no other types of pants packed away in his suitcases—and closed himself off in the bathroom. He filled the round marble tub with water that nearly scalded him. Oh, this was going to feel good. He couldn't remember the last time he took a bath.
Dean gradually lowered his bruised, throbbing body into the water. What started as mild discomfort because of the heat of the water softened into reprieve from neck to toes, and he groaned aloud. His eyes buttoned themselves closed, and in a delicious place between sleep and awakening, Dean Winchester was finally able to relax in God knew how many months. How many years.
Too bad it was in someone else's body. Living someone else's life.
And in this other life, just like his own, he had to work hard through some shitty times to get to relax.
His respect for Ambrose had gone up. Several notches.
A loud vibration brought him back to mindfulness. It was his phone, ringing on the floor on top of a hand towel. Dean touched his fingers dry on the towel, placed there for that purpose, then answered the call. "Hello?"
"Hey, Winchester."
He'd never get used to the sound of his own voice on the other end. He hoped to God it was something he'd never have to get used to. "Hey, Ambrose. Did you catch the match yet?"
"No. Sam and I have been running around all night."
Dean yawned. "Any luck with Potter and the rest of his puppet pals?"
"No—what? No, listen, something's come up and Sam felt you should know about it."
"Okay. Lay it on me."
"So you know that redheaded bitch that I guess you and Sam aren't on good terms with?"
"Rowena?"
"Yeah, you know the one. Anyway, uh…she's set some terms for us to follow. Basically, Nash and his crew aren't the only ones who mutinied. There's actually twelve more, and Rowena wants us to find them all."
"Why would you waste your time with that?" Surely there were other ways to reverse this spell than to resort to asking Rowena for help, right? What was Sam thinking?
Unless she managed to get in contact with him first…for whatever reason…
"Because…" Ambrose's voice tapered off.
"Because…?" Dean encouraged.
"I don't want him to worry."
The words were obviously not intended for Dean. "Dammit, Ambrose, what is it?"
"Dean," Ambrose soughed, "Rowena kidnapped Cas. Is that his name? Castiel?"
Warm as the water was swathing Dean's aching body, he suddenly went numb. Cold. Stiff as the dead. "Wh—what?"
"She's holding Castiel hostage, and if we don't—"
Dean shoved out of the water, ejecting a splash onto the tile floor. "How the hell did she get him? How did that bitch overpower Cas?"
"I don't know, Dean, I'm still trying to figure out how your world works. She had him tied to a chair, and I guess she had this knife that hurts angels, from what Sam was telling me—"
"Son of a bitch." Dean nearly slipped on the wet floor in a fall that would have shattered his mandible against the bathtub's edge. "How long do you have?"
"Twelve hours…to start. It's been about thirty minutes. We've been hauling ass to this place Nash promises the witches have been meeting out at lately. He's been pretty obliging, lucky for us."
"Fantastic. Where are you?" Dean scraped a towel over his legs and stomach, then struggled to hop back into the dirty jeans. For such a brawny guy, Ambrose's jeans sure were slender.
"Just outside Bangor. First place we're hitting up is this vacated Safeway. It's down the street from a library where these dumb kids checked out a bunch of books on witchcraft."
Details were unimportant to Dean. "Alright, I'll leave the hotel and see if I can get a car or something, drive out there. Ain't nobody getting me on a plane again—"
"Dean, no."
"What the hell do you mean, 'Dean, no'? Cas is in trouble, and I want in on this. I'll send Rowena to a place that makes hell look like Valhalla for what she did—"
"Dean!" Ambrose shouted. "I did not call you to get you on board with us. You have your own mission where you are, in my life. You've got the Intercontinental Championship. And considering how you got the damn thing, you gotta make sure nothing bad happens to me or to Roman or—"
"Roman's a pretty buff guy, right? Does he really need me sticking to his side like some kind of sidekick? Is he not a competent fighter?" Dean wished he could take the words back. He didn't mean it. He had nothing against Roman. He liked the guy. But Castiel was in trouble and if anything happened to him when Dean could have prevented it otherwise…
He had enough trouble sleeping at night. He didn't need yet another reason to hate himself.
"Castiel's important to you, right, Dean?" Ambrose asked, calmer now.
"Of course. He's…he's my…" No number of words in the English language could accurately sum up what Castiel meant to Dean. "Yes. He is."
"Roman's important to me, too. So's the title. So is everything that you've got going for me, right now. And just as I'm hoping you trust me to make things right in your world…Dean, please." Dean hated the sound of his own voice breaking. "I need you to stay there. I trust you, and I don't trust people too easily."
"I don't, either. But right now, neither of us really have a choice."
"Exactly."
"Let me see that," came Sam's muted voice, followed by a declaration at full volume: "Dean. Hey. It's me. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have had him tell you about Cas."
"Because keeping stuff from each other works out well for us, doesn't it?" Shut your mouth, Dean, don't take anything out on your little brother.
"But Dean, Ambrose is right. We've got this. We've already got a lead, and like he said, Nash is cooperating with us so far. We're going to get those witches, and we'll save Castiel."
Oh, Sam. Ever the optimist. Dean kneaded the wrinkles between his eyebrows. His head was killing him, a pain the bath might not have been able to alleviate. "Okay. Fine. But you keep me updated, got it? I want to know everything you're up to."
"You've got it."
"Guess I'm stuck a while longer here," Dean said with a sigh.
"Hey, you're a champion. Enjoy it while it lasts."
"While it lasts?" came Ambrose's voice behind Sam's. "Yeah, for him, in my bod. Then we'll switch back and I'll be the champion, 'cause there's no way it's only lasting a little while. Especially against Owens."
Ambrose must have been an optimist, too. That or Sam was rubbing off on him. "Alright. Keep in touch. Oh, and Ambrose?"
"Yeah?" Ambrose returned to the phone.
"What the hell is a Smackdown?"
"Another weekly WWE program. Tapes on Tuesdays, airs on Thursdays. So whatever you do, don't leak what happens to social media."
"Whoa, whoa, you're telling me I might have to fight again? So soon?"
"Welcome to my life, Dean Winchester."
The call ended.
Dean stood in the bathroom, still partially dripping from his sudden retreat from the tub. Water particles clung to his skin, chilling him. He stared himself—Ambrose's self—down in the mirror.
This was nuts.
Dean returned to the water. Soon he'd go to bed. Long day ahead, he supposed, no matter whose life he was living.
The respect for Dean Ambrose was thriving now.
He couldn't sleep.
Tried to. But didn't.
Laid in bed for hours, thinking, praying, wondering, hoping.
It wasn't like Dean Winchester to ever hope. Just do. Do or cope with whatever happened anyway.
But he hoped that night, more than he'd ever hoped for anything before, that Castiel would be alright.
Sam would be alright.
And even Ambrose would get out of this unharmed and protected. For Roman's sake.
He was counting on Sam to be the hero this time.
The pain settled in each muscle overnight. Physical anguish he'd never felt before. They were on fire by dawn.
Slivers of sunlight cut through the space between the curtains and the windows. Figuring Roman would be here soon anyway, Dean got up. He checked his phone. No missed calls from Sam or Ambrose. He tried both numbers. No answer.
Weird.
Don't worry yet. There's still time.
Dean helped himself to a long, hot shower for the hell of it. Dressed in jeans that closely resembled the pair he wore the night before, matching it with a white muscle shirt.
Funny how similarly Ambrose and Winchester dressed, only instead of these tank tops, Dean wore his plaid shirts. Then the pants, boots, even the leather jacket: all common.
He combed out long blond hair he still wasn't used to. Touched his face, examining the bruises and swollen red patches of skin from last night. This kind of condition and he was expected to fight again?
Dean prayed again. He was doing that a lot lately—again, unusual of him. No Owens tonight, please. Anyone but him.
Dressed and packed, he was ready but had no idea where to find Roman, so he waited for Reigns to pick him up from his room. They'd be driving to Fort Lauderdale. It would take less than an hour to get to the BB&T Center.
"What do you think we're up against tonight?" Dean asked, riding shotgun. He missed driving. He missed his Impala. He hated not knowing where she was, too, what kind of condition she was in.
"Well, don't be surprised if Owens targets you," Roman answered, head swiveling from left to right and left again before turning out of the hotel parking lot.
"I broke his fingers. He should stay out of my way."
Roman laughed softly. "You think a broken finger or two will stop Kevin Owens? He's no Luis Urive."
"Who?"
"You don't remember?"
"No."
"Oh. Well, never mind."
"I thought you said I might have rendered his hand useless," Dean stated.
"Maybe you did. There's no telling. But if it's anything less than total immobility, he might not care what the trainers say. I'm just warning you to watch your back. He's not easily stopped."
"I'm starting to learn that. What about you?" Dean looked over at Roman. "You're, uh, defending your title or whatever tonight, right?"
"Maybe. Wouldn't surprise me. The Authority really hates this belt on my shoulder. They do everything they can to tear it away from me and keep me down."
From his backstage viewing the night before, Dean had determined the Authority consisted of a power-hungry husband and wife, Hunter and Stephanie something, and nobody liked them. They didn't do much to change that shared opinion, either. Dean had so many questions—what do they have against you? How'd you get the belt, anyway? Who's your biggest rival in the company?—but none that Ambrose would ask. Soberly. Logically.
Instead Dean bobbed his head and said, "They're a bunch of dicks."
Roman laughed, harder this time. "I'll say."
Dean checked his phone. No texts. No missed calls or voicemails. He returned the device to his pocket, trying not to panic.
"Well, don't worry about it, Roman. Whatever they've got planned for you, you'll overcome. I've got your back."
"Thanks, Dean."
Dean stared out the window, at the endless highway, white stripes zipping by, rushing cars with texting drivers. This was his familiar place. This felt a lot like home.
God, did he miss Sam, though.
He closed his eyes and banished all thoughts of Sam, Castiel, Rowena, everything that was his true home.
"Music?" Dean said, reaching for the radio before Roman gave an answer. It was annoyingly quiet without something to talk about. He scanned through each radio station until a familiar tune caught his attention. "Oh, hell yeah," he said, twisting the volume knob up.
"What is this song?"
"Dude, it's Asia. Who hasn't heard this song?"
"Not me. I didn't even know you listened to Asia."
Dean mouthed the words to "Heat of the Moment", rocking his head back and forth to the eighties jam. Roman gave him a look that reminded Dean of a bemused Sam and laughed.
"Hey, let me ask you something," Dean said, at last coming up with a question that might have been expected of Ambrose to ask Roman. "Where do you think we go from here? You and me? Well, I mean, I hope you don't go anywhere away from that title belt, 'cause it's a big deal but…thinking about where we've been and where we are now. Are you happy? Or could you be happier somehow?"
"First off, I like where I am a lot. Being called World Heavyweight Champion? Never gets old. Yeah, I'm happy. Real happy. I made it this far and I have no intention of going back or letting go. And as far as you're concerned, being the Intercontinental Champion could be good for you. You don't have to risk anything; it might be okay for you to sit back and wait for the next challenger to step up. Defend your title. And then wait for the next guy."
"So I should just stay where I am and get used to it."
"I mean, if you're itching for more than the IC belt, yeah. Hell, if you get bored, maybe go after Alberto Del Rio's United States Championship, too. Nobody likes seeing that belt on him."
"I know what you mean." He didn't. "Two titles at once, though? Now that's a challenge."
"Rollins did it. Don't see why you couldn't."
Rollins. Dean remembered Ambrose mentioning him—Seth Rollins, was that it? A former brother. He wondered what the history was there. "Roman, do you really believe I can do it?"
"Of course, Dean. I believe in you with all my heart."
"Sometimes I don't believe in myself. Some days I choose not to, because I feel I've let myself down too much to start all over. But I want you to know, the days I doubt myself, that's not who I really am. I guess you know that. But some days, it's just…nice to be reminded. It's nice to know there's someone there, encouraging me."
"I get what you mean. But I'm not gonna let you give up on you. No matter what."
"And I won't let you give up on you either, Roman. So if there's ever a day I'm complaining or groaning or bitching about not getting the job done, remind me of this conversation. Remind me of what you are to me. Probably the best friend this guy's ever had. So whatever we're doing, let's keep on going. Wherever we go, let's hold the hell on."
This was the least Dean could do for Ambrose. Dean Ambrose deserved Roman Reigns's friendship. He deserved a guy who had his back no matter what. And this couldn't be jeopardized no matter what anyone said.
Dean had to protect Roman. For Ambrose.
"Where'd the sap come from?" Roman said, grinning. He lifted a fist and tapped Dean's chin. "You never talk like this. Not that it doesn't mean something to me, but…"
No, he didn't ever talk like this. It wasn't like him to open up, spew a bunch of mawkish crap, even with his own brother. But hell—he wasn't Dean Winchester right now. Time to explore new levels of mentality. "Eh, I just think it's best for our relationship if we had more talks like this. I don't wanna lose you the way I lost"—did he dare? did he even know what he was talking about? how was someone considered a "former brother" anything good?—"Rollins."
Roman's voice went dark and sincere. He put a hand on Dean's knee, briefly. "You won't. Trust me, Dean, if you don't believe anything else I say in your life, believe that. You won't lose me like we lost him."
We? "Good. I like the sound of that."
Dean returned his attention to the music for the time being. He felt better, securing Ambrose's relationship with Reigns the way he'd secure his hold on this title.
If he was here long enough, maybe he'd score that United States title, too.
It wasn't necessary, but he wanted to. For Ambrose.
He was a fighter back home and he was a fighter here. One way, and another, and another.
Last night, Dean hadn't done much in front of a crowd.
Sure, he'd fought Kevin Owens and earned himself a title belt, but that was it. In and out. No conversation.
Now, Roman was telling him he'd have to talk in front of all these people. Dean could sense how massive the crowd was even backstage at the BB&T Center. Demons didn't scare him. Ghosts didn't rattle his bones. Stumbling over words and making himself—Ambrose—out to be a total klutz, though? That made him a little nervous.
"What the hell am I gonna say?" Dean asked him, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. "I mean…I don't really have anything to say. I think I spoke loud and clear last night by my actions, know what I mean?" A decent cover.
"I know. But if Owens is all talk, then we have to step up to that, too."
Dean was trying to compose himself. Sam hadn't answered his phone all day, nor had Ambrose answered "his." His concern was clawing through him, bottom to top, like a fatal disease. What about Cas? Where the hell were they? The twelve hours were up, were they not? What the hell was going on? Why wasn't he getting answers?
Trust your brother, he had to tell himself. Focus on this. Power through it. Then try again. If I can't get ahold of him after this, then screw it: I'm tracking down his cell and finding him myself. Sorry, Roman, but this is important to me, too.
Kevin Owens was in the ring now, kicking off the program. He'd been going on and on—and on and on—for nearly ten minutes now about how unfair last night was. How Dean Ambrose was a menace, a fink, a child who needed to be taught a lesson by an adult. Like he was such an adult himself. Please. He sounded ready to burst into tears.
"I've had enough of his voice," Dean muttered.
"Me too. Wanna go crash a party?" Roman pressed a microphone against Dean's chest. Dean wrapped his fingers around it, staring down at the device like it was the technology of extraterrestrials.
Part of the life, Winchester, get on with it.
"Let's do it," Dean said.
"Alright, my boy."
Roman's entrance music hit, and Kevin Owens looked sour. He aimed his smug, screwy face into the crowd, staring Roman and Dean down as they shuffled down a staircase. Fans held out their hands and phones for high-fives and selfies. Dean touched many of them and posed for a couple of pictures, hoping he made someone's day that way. Strange how Roman emerged from way up here and not the ramp down below, where Dean had been the night before. Where all the other superstars came from.
Owens growled, baring his teeth as Roman and Dean stepped into the ring. Dean kept close to Roman's side, even as Roman paced. Owens scratched his bearded chin, then jammed a finger Dean's way.
"That's my title!" he said outside the microphone.
Dean shook his head. "All mine, dude."
Roman lifted the microphone to his lips to talk.
Hip-hop music accompanied by a female's rhythmic voice blasted through the arena. Dean looked to Roman, who was rolling his eyes. "Perfect," Roman mumbled.
Stephanie what's-her-name appeared, triggering waves of boos throughout the crowd. She swaggered towards the ring, shaking her hips like she knew how to work a beat. Owens looked happy to see her.
"Doesn't feel too nice getting interrupted, does it, Reigns?" she asked, spearing a gaze towards Dean and Roman. "We need to talk."
Dean decided to try something. "About what? How awesome we are?" he asked, voice powerful by the aid of the mic. He was satisfied with the giggles he got as a response, few as there were. "Tell her, Roman." He nudged Roman's shoulder, the one not bearing his title belt.
"What do you want, Stephanie?" Roman asked.
Dean closed his mouth. Oh. Now was not the time for joking, he realized.
"I don't know what you were thinking last night, running off with the title like that, Ambrose," Stephanie said, taking a step towards him, then another. How she could walk in those heels was an enigma. "I thought you were past your little kleptomaniac streak after Rollins left."
Dean shrugged. "Guess I'm not." He slapped the title on his shoulder with merited pride. "You can't make me give it back. I don't care who you are." Getting used to the microphone had been surprisingly simple. He could tune out the crowd as long as he focused on how much Stephanie and Owens pissed him off.
Stephanie shrugged, palms aimed at the ceiling. "You've never respected me as your boss before, I don't see you doing it now or anytime soon. But I have to do what's best for business, no matter how the children want to play, or man the playground."
"What does this have to do with me, Steph?" Roman asked. The crowd was taken with him, enamored with everything he had to say, even if he was visibly irritated saying these things.
"Tonight, we were going to schedule a rematch between Kevin Owens and Dean Ambrose for the Intercontinental Championship. This would come a little while before Roman's defending of the World Heavyweight Championship against Sheamus."
"Shocker," Roman said.
"Yeah, freakin' typical, Stephanie," Dean said, rolling his eyes like he knew what a "shocker" this situation was. The crowd seemed to agree with them, booing, hissing.
Stephanie ignored their utterances. "But he came to me this morning with something else in mind. A change of plans."
"Because Kevin Owens is running the company now, right?" Roman asked. "Man in charge? He makes all the calls, and you have to listen to him."
Damn, was he sassy. Dean had to smother a chortle. Owens just shook his head. Dean was ready to punch him out. He noticed two of Owens's fingers were wrapped up. Let me over there and I'll finish off the others. Then they'll all match.
Stephanie knitted her brows, but she was smiling, which wasn't a good sign. "If you want to claim you're the Intercontinental Champion, Ambrose, fine. But there's a rematch tonight. That hasn't changed. That way the true champion will be revealed, no questions asked."
"Think he was already revealed last night, but go ahead," Dean said. He tapped his title again, just to get under her skin.
"Tonight will be the greatest match Smackdown has ever seen. Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose will be defending their titles together against Kevin Owens and Sheamus, in a Winners Take All Tag Team Match!"
"What?" Roman blurted over an extremely agitated and elated audience. Their wails hurt Dean's ears. "Is that even a real thing?"
Yeah, I was just about to ask that, Dean thought.
"It is, Roman, it's happened before and it's happening again. Tonight. Only this time, it isn't mixed." Stephanie drew nearer to Dean and Roman. "The titles will go to the team that gets the pinfall or submission. Suppose Kevin Owens pins Reigns here till the count of three. Not only does Roman lose his World Heavyweight Championship, but you're unquestionably stripped of the Intercontinental Title, and it goes to Owens."
"That's bullshit!" Dean cried, hands at his sides so the slur hadn't been picked up by the instrument. Nor picked up by Stephanie's sense of hearing, or concern, as she went on: "And if Dean Ambrose is in the ring with Sheamus, and Sheamus wrestlers him into the Cloverleaf, and the pain is just too much for him to bear, and he's out of Roman's reach and just can't make the tag, and it hurts so much that he just has to tap out…" Her whiny voice, tainted with high pitch and faux concern, steeped drastically as she stared into Dean's eyes. "You don't just lose your title. Roman loses his, too. You both lose."
"You wanna kiss me or something, Steph? Back up," Dean said. It was all he could think to say. What the hell was this? The chance to fight with Roman, sure, but…with so much on the line? Both titles? Because why, Owens was a little punk and didn't want to try to handle Dean one-on-one again? He felt he couldn't do it without a buddy, Sheamus, whoever the hell that was? Probably the pasty redheaded guy Roman fought against last night…
This was so petty. So immature. Punishing Dean by throwing Roman into the mix. Knowing how to irk him, how to truly nettle him. He hated Kevin Owens. Hated him so much. More than Meg, more than Abaddon, more than Metatron…he was working his way to Ruby levels now. Though she was hard to beat on his hate list.
"This is how it's going to be. Boss's orders," Stephanie said. "That will be the main event."
This pleased the crowd.
Did none of them see what bullshit this was? Not one of them?
No. They didn't care. They just wanted a fight.
"Thank you, Stephanie, for setting things right," Owens praised her. Dean wanted to hurl. "You're so good at what you do."
Stephanie beamed. She exited the ring in the same music she'd arrived with.
Dean looked to Roman. "They're serious?" he asked. "That's what's happening tonight?"
Suddenly something grabbed hold of his leg from behind and yanked hard. Dean was flat on the mat in a flash.
What the hell? He rolled onto his back and found a pale, muscular superstar standing over him. Sheamus, yes, that was him, the Celtic Warrior whom Roman had beaten last night—he started kicking Dean over and over in the ribs.
Roman lunged at Sheamus and punched him in the face, sending him over the top rope. Owens was charging at Roman now while his back was turned towards Sheamus, so Dean leaped up and kicked him in the jaw. Dazed, Owens staggered backwards. Roman threw his head back, arms behind him, and let out a loud cry. Dean watched in undeniable admiration as he drilled his skull into Owens's midsection, knocking him to the floor.
Now on the other side of the ring, Sheamus plunged both arms under the bottom rope and grabbed Owens by the shirt, helping him out of the ring and out of the way of another attack. Roman ran at them, clutching the top rope and shaking it in his grip. He pointed a finger at the retreating Sheamus and screamed, "Yeah, walk away! We'll see you tonight."
"Kiss your titles goodbye, laddies!" Sheamus said, helping Owens recover his balance.
Dean joined Roman at his side. "STILL MINE, OWENS!" he roared, thrusting the Intercontinental Championship in the air. "AND IT'LL STILL BE MINE BY THE END OF TONIGHT!"
Owens waved a hand at him. "Screw you, Ambrose."
"That's a nice comeback, Owens, real nice."
With a sigh, he looked to Roman. "This is gonna suck, huh?"
"Probably. But we've got this."
"Hell yeah, we do."
Looked like the fight was on. Again.
And Dean was not running away.