Seth parked the busted Cadillac in an alley a few blocks away from Punks building. He figured, being as they were obviously in the slums of Moscow, the vultures and criminals would be around to pick apart the bones of the car that, until recently, was a very nice vehicle. Dean was semiconscious in the back seat, mumbling incoherently as Seth pulled him to his feet and shouldered his good arm. The Lunatic Fringe at least tried to help, dragging his feet in a weak attempt to walk.

Seth could feel the heat radiating off his body even as Dean shivered against him. "Almost there, Dean."

"Wh-where are we going?" Dean slurred, head hung against his chest and his sweat soaked hair falling into his eyes. "It's Evy's dance recital, I can't leave."

That was months ago. Seth remembered because he and Paige were there as well. She was dressed as a flower, a costume Dean and Seth had stayed up until three in the morning the previous night trying to make. It almost came to blows several times, and the poor costume was held together with hot glue and staples, but they did it. So, just to get the man in his arms to stay awake, Seth asked, "Who made her beautiful costume?"

"I did!" Dean grumbled. "But Seth helped. I couldn't have done it without him. Any of it. Not just the costume. He's so great with Evy and I don't know what would have happened if it weren't for him. He's my brother. I love him. Don't tell him I said that."

Seth smiled, touched by the words from the delirious man in his arms. "I won't."

"Plus, he can be a dickhead and I'll never hear the end of it."

Seth chuckled. Dean never hid that sentiment. "Thanks Dean."

People seemed to ignore them as Seth damn near dragged Dean down the street. This was the type of place where the less one knew the better. Even the cops seemed nowhere to be seen. He could see why Punk lived here. People minded their own business. Plus, as an ex-pat, Punk would stand out anywhere else in this country. Born and raised in Chicago, he had an American attitude and a healthy disrespect for authority. Maybe that's why he and Dean never got along, they were so much alike. The only difference was that Punk lived a straight edge lifestyle, and Dean didn't.

Punks door was a heavy steel slab with a camera situated just above the frame. Seth shifted Dean in his arms and used his foot to knock. There was a long pause when nothing happened. Then there was the crackle of a speaker jumping to life. "I thought you were coming alone!"

"Sorry, Punk." Seth said. "If I hadn't said I was alone, you wouldn't have helped."

"Damn right I wouldn't have!" Punk yelled. "Who is that?"

He couldn't see Dean's face. Maybe that was a blessing in disguise. "A friend." He answered. "He's sick and needs help. We're in trouble, Punk."

The speaker went silent and Seth almost thought Punk wouldn't open the door. He started thinking of alternative options, but he heard the sound of lock after lock slipping out of place. The door swung open and he was met with a scowling CM Punk. The shorter man was looking him over, deciding just what he wanted to do. Then his eyes fell on Dean and his scowl deepened before he slammed the door in Seths face.

"God dammit Punk!" Seth yelled and slammed his foot into the metal door again and again, emphasizing each word with the impact. "Don't be an asshole! Open the fucking door! I'm not leaving until you do!"

The door opened again and Punk had an angry finger in Seths face, "You intentionally didn't tell me that was Dean Ambrose!"

"Because you wouldn't have opened the door!" Seth replied. "Trust me, if he was in his right mind, this would never have happened."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know." Answered Seth truthfully. "He's burning up."

Punk looked Dean over again, taking in his ragged appearance, the bruises and cuts, and the swollen wrist. Then he looked at Seth's pleading face again. He sighed as he caved in and stepped aside to allow Seth to enter.

"The bedroom is upstairs." Punk said. "Take him there and I'll look him over."

Seth maneuvered Dean up the steps, avoiding the piles of wires, books, gadgets, and shards of metal. Punk followed and helped Seth lay Dean in the small twin bed that barely held his long frame. The sick man groaned as his body connected with the lumpy mattress.

Punk felt his forehead and looked at Seth with a grim expression. "He's burning up."

"I told you."

"Go downstairs, there's a vial of antibiotics and a few ace bandages." He instructed. "Bring some water and a towel back with you."

Seth hesitated, worried to leave both men alone. After all, it was no secret they hated each other. Punk rolled his eyes, "I'm not going to hurt him!"

With a nod, Seth's did as instructed. He returned to the room with the requested items to find Punk gingerly poking at Ambrose's arm. "His wrist is broken."

Seth handed him the vial and towel. "Yeah, that was my fault. He asked me to."

"He asked you to break his wrist?"

Seth shrugged, "We were handcuffed to chairs. I broke his wrist and he slipped out of the cuffs. Is that why he's sick?"

"It's possible. There's a pretty nasty cut in his hairline that looks pretty infected. I'd say at least three days old and then went septic. Know anything about that?"

Seth shook his head, "He was on a ship to Russia three days ago with Evy."

Punk stifled a laugh, "Whose Evy? The girl of the month?"

"His daughter." Seth answered, unamused. "She's six."

Punk composed himself after that new piece of information. "Daughter, huh? I'd say I'm surprised, but I'm not. It was really only a matter of time the way he slept around. Who's the mother? Some truck stop waitress?"

Seth was beginning to get angry and could see why Dean hated Punk. "No. It was Sister Abigail. His wife."

Punk looked genuinely surprised, "Married? To Sister Abigail? With a kid? Really? And where's she now? Probably wised up, huh?"

"Dead."

Punk looked away. If Seth didn't know any better, he'd say he was ashamed. He didn't bring it up again and didn't apologize, rather asking where Evy was.

"We don't know." Answered Seth. "Some school outside Moscow. Look, can you help him please?"

Punk sighed and continued looking Dean over. The Lunatic Fringes eyes were closed and he was muttering incoherently as punk smoothed back his sweat soaked hair. He took the vial and filled a syringe before injecting Dean with the liquid. The man didn't even stir. Then Punk instructed Seth to hold him down.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to set his wrist, and it's going to hurt like fuck." He answered. "I can't have him thrashing around. He might hit me."

With a smirk, knowing Dean would probably do that anyway once he was coherent, Seth climbed on top of his friend and used his body weight to pin his long limbs down. Punk gave a quick countdown to allow Seth to brace himself before he took a hold of Dean's forearm and hand and pulled.

Deans eyes shot open and he screamed, "FUCK!" He tried to pull away, tried to throw Seth off, but the younger man held him down. "Stop! Stop!"

Seth had his arms holding Dean's shoulders down, but he forgot just how strong he was, having almost thrown him off as he tried to thrash. "Dean, relax. You're okay!"

"Almost got it." Punk said as he manipulated Dean's wrist.

"Seth, get off! Stop!"

"We have to fix your wrist!" Said Seth. "You're the one who wanted me to break it!"

Dean gritted his teeth against the pain. He tried to breath against it, tried to get his mind to wrap around what was happening. There was an audible sound as Deans bones set together and Punk looked at Seth with a smile. "Got it."

Dean stopped struggling under Seth, but his face remained screw together in pain and his breathing remained labored. His eyes immediately closed as his body finally gave out and his fevered mind took over.

Seth looked at Punk. "Now what?"

"Well, we have to wait until his fever breaks." Punk answered as he began wrapping Dean's wrist tightly. "Until then, he's just going to be like this."

Seth sat in Punk's kitchen and turned over the phone Dean stole from Alberto in his hands. He needed to call Roman, but knew this phone was probably being tracked by now. Hell, texting Nikki was a stupid move really. As soon as he dialed the number and hit send, they would know exactly where he was. He couldn't do that with Dean in this condition.

Punk entered wiping his hands on a dirty looking towel and Seth followed him with his eyes as he walked to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water before handing one to him. "You know, you have a pretty nasty gash on your cheek. I can stitch that up for you if you want."

Seth shook his head, "I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." Punk replied with a shrug and plopped himself down in the chair across from Seth, propping his feet up on the wooden table.

"Would you happen to have a phone I can use?" Seth asked. "This one is compromised."

Punk reached for the phone and Seth handed it to him. The tattooed man made quick work of opening the back, removing the SIM card and snapping it in half. He made a few more tweaks before he handed it back with a smirk, "Now they can't track it."

"You know, HQ could still use someone like you." Seth said with a grin.

Punk didn't even try to hide the laugh, "No thank you. I don't need some government sanctioned organization knowing when I wipe my ass. I'll pass."

Seth didn't press the issue. "How is he?"

"Well, he's still delirious." Punk answered with a sigh. "When I left, he was mumbling something about parent teacher conferences and a portable nuke in South America. He'll be right as rain in a few days."

"We don't have a few days, Punk."

"What are you even doing in Moscow?"

Seth hesitated, watching Punk's face carefully. Despite his shortcomings, he'd helped them both find refuge to regroup. Plus, he always seemed to have his finger on the pulse of what was happening. Maybe he could be of some use here. So, Seth recounted what brought them showed to his door. Punk listened with interest, not saying a word until Seth had finished.

"Rusev, huh?" He said after a moment of thought.

"Ring a bell?"

"The dude has his finger in everything in this city." Punk answered. "Gambling, drugs, prostitution, you name it, he's getting a cut. But he's no big player. He's a puppet trying to break away from the puppeteer. Granted, he has a nasty habit of kidnapping kids and wives to make his henchmen stay loyal. That's pretty low."

"Who's the puppeteer?"

Punk shrugged, "No one really knows. I have my theories, but that's all they are."

"And what are they?" Seth pressed.

"There's been chatter about someone called the Chairman." He began. "I think he was the real muscle behind the Authority before Helmsley was killed. I heard he pulled the strings, gave Helmsley his resources, and was the bankroll. But again, only theories."

Seth took it all in. He had never heard the name 'Chairman' before, but that didn't mean much. A lot of his job was need to know. He knew it was because, if he were captured, he couldn't give secrets away. You can't say what you don't know. However, if this Chairman was a real person, he needed to find out his game. If what Punk was saying was true, then it wasn't Rusev who wanted Regal dead, it was the Chairman. But why?

"I have to make a phone call." He said and took his leave of Punk. He needed Roman.

"Mr. Ambrose, Evy has been telling stories of your involvement in a secret government agency. We're concerned."

Dean shifted in the uncomfortable desk he had been instructed to sit in when he arrived for his scheduled conference. He was 6'4" and he had to shove his long body into a seat made for a six year old. Why didn't they have any adult chairs available? He was looking into the stern face of a woman who could have been a professional wrestler if she wanted to be. She was dressed all in black, scowling at him as if he had done something wrong. "We'd like to hear your side of the story."

"She's six." A voice said next to him. He turned his head at the familiar tones and smiled. Abby. She was wearing white.

"Six or not, we expect our students to be truthful." The teacher said sternly. "I will not tolerate lies."

"We can talk to her." Abby offered, but Dean could see the anger in her face. "She has a colorful imagination."

Twenty minutes later, he and Abby sat in his jeep. He couldn't help but stare at her. Was she real?

"Do you believe that teacher?" She said angrily. "Saying imagination won't be tolerated. You'd think that school was some dictatorship. What a load of crap. We should pull her out and send her to that other school closer to home. I don't care if this school has a better reputation, I won't have my daughter's imagination taken away."

Dean remembered this event happening differently. Yes, Evy had been in a stricter school that he then took her out of for just this reason. But Abby wasn't there...why would she be? He had lost her six years before. Yet here she sat in his passenger seat, complaining just how he had.

She caught him watching her and her anger seemed to fade as a sweet smile spread across her face. She reached out and gently placed a hand on his cheek, "Are you ok?"

He mirrored her grin and took her hand in his before planting a kiss on her palm. With a shaky voice, he answered her. "I'm great. I'm here with you."

"Of course you are." She replied, giggling ever so softly. "Where else would you be?"

"Dying in some shit hole in Moscow."

She laughed and leaned in for a kiss, pressing her lips into his and running a hand through his hair like only she could. He had forgotten how their lips fit together, like they were made for each other. She pulled away and looked him in the eye. "You're not dying in some shithole in Moscow. That comes later."

He drew his brows together in confusion, "What?"

He face hardened and she looked at him with fear and anger. "You need to wake up, Dean."

"I'm not asleep."

"You need to find Evy." She said. "She's not safe."

"Abby, Evy is at home…"

"WAKE UP!"