Hey guys, part two of the WrestleMania volume is here for your reading pleasure! Watch how Dean Ambrose pays homage to his Roman Reigns in the battle for the U.S. Championship against Kevin Owens. Enjoy!

Dean Ambrose grinned when Kevin Owens strutted down the walkway and the stadium erupted in hisses and heckles. The seemingly unfazed Owens crawled into the ring against the onslaught of negativity. He looked strange without the title belt slung over his shoulder. The Authority had reclaimed possession of both the U.S. title and the World Heavyweight Championship until the event was over and new winners were established.

Owens was armed with a microphone, of course, because the man simply couldn't enter the ring for a fight alone. He had to lecture the audience like he was a college professor first and foremost.

"It's been an interesting ride, as the United States Champion," Owens stated, pacing the mat like a cat. "I was getting close to longest-running titleholder of all time. I was a hero, a role model. Anyone who needed someone for their children to look up to, they could point to me and say, 'Kevin Owens, son. What a guy. He represents all that is good in the world anymore.' At least, I can say that for my children. But I speak this not as a selfish man, but as someone who wants to save the world one broken wretch at a time."

Dean hoped on a level deep within him Roman would make a surprise entrance. Defy the odds, overcome the impossible, live out the unimaginable. Show up here today and kick ass. But that level was a neighbor to thoughts that his team would be united today, fight on their own—and together. It wasn't happening.

When Roman's music hit, Dean was ready. Naturally, spectators were confused when it was Ambrose sauntering out from the side to "The Truth Reigns" and not Roman. But Dean didn't think anyone was disappointed. Crowd members patted his shoulder, rubbed his back, took video and pictures on their phone as he passed them by. He proudly flourished Roman's "HIT HARD, HIT OFTEN" shirt. It was a little big on him, but he felt more comfortable in it than anything else he owned.

His ears perceived bewildered exchanges between Michael Cole and JBL. "Is that Ambrose? Is he roleplaying as Roman Reigns today or something?"

"Well, remember, Cole, Triple H did say Dean Ambrose agreed to fight in Roman Reigns's place if Roman couldn't show up. I guess this means Roman is still in the hospital."

"What a brave thing for Ambrose to do today. He already had his match today, and it didn't look like he was going to survive that one."

"What are you talking about! Dean kicked some serious butt in that match, and he'll stomp on Kevin Owens today, too."

Dean slid into the ring between the ropes. Owens's eyes perused him disparagingly.

"Tell you what, Owens, why don't you put your muscles where your mouth is," Dean said. He didn't need a mic. He didn't care if the Universe heard him or not. These words were for Owens. "Shut the hell up and fight me."

Owens clicked his tongue, lips twisting into a devious smile. "Look at that. Ambrose is all dressed up like his buddy Roman Reigns. Isn't that sweet? Fanboy wants to make his idol proud. How come you're doing this, Ambrose? Is your boy still confined to a bed in an infirmary somewhere? That was my doing, remember? I broke his back. Flipped him over and shattered his spine."

A growl rattled deep in Dean's throat.

"And I'll do the same to you. Right now."

Owens dropped the microphone. The official snatched it before the device was involved in the duel.

Dean cracked his neck and smacked his hands, veiled in black gloves, together. He could hardly wait for Lillian to stop talking. These people knew who they were. Knew what the stakes were.

And perhaps also knew that Dean was going to wreck Kevin Owens, to a far worse degree than Owens had devastated Roman.

Thrice the bell clangored.

Owens was far less forward than Sheamus had been. He kept to his side of the ring, gaiting from one side to the other and back again, waiting for Dean to make the attack. Dean didn't know what the fighter had planned, but he wasn't going to play sit-down. That's not why he was here.

He was here to fight.

He was here to win.

Dean made the first strike. He grabbed Owens's neck from behind as Owens grabbed his. The two locked each other in this position and twirled as though they were dancing, not wrestling. Dean broke their graceful form, shifting his arm to entrap Owens's neck in the bend of his elbow. Owens was relentless in his struggle against the grip. He walked Dean towards the ropes and swung his body against them. As Dean ricocheted off the cords, Owens thrusted his fist into Dean's throat. Dean collapsed to the mat. Owens shouted like a child in early celebration.

Dean was up in the meantime. Would take a lot more than one hit to keep him down. Channel your inner Reigns, he thought with an inward smirk.

He drilled his cranium into Owens's knees, propelling him to the mat. Which of these legs was Roman attacking the other day? Right? Dean went with his first guess and wrapped his leg around Owens's, tucking his foot in the bend of Owens's knee, and falling to the left, yanking the muscle with him in a painful unnatural twist. Owens strived not to let the raid unsettle him. He moved to his other leg, trying to stand. Dean took hold of Owens's injured leg and fell to his own back, wrenching Owens to the ground on his side. Owens couldn't muffle his cry. It had hurt.

But he wasn't giving up.

Neither was Ambrose.

As Dean moved again to seize Owens's leg, Owens bent down and wrapped his arms around Dean's torso, forcing Dean's arms over his shoulders, his chin digging into the tip of Dean's spine. He thrust his chin into this tender area, then flipped Dean over his head. Dean's frame glided over the ropes, smacking against the solid ground. He slowly pushed himself up with his hands, but his knee throbbed. It had absorbed much of the fall. He shook his head, trying to free himself from the muddle.

Owens was on him. He clutched Dean by the shoulders and swung him towards the ring posts. Dean spun to the side before his head clouted the pole. He fell safely against the ropes instead. Owens super-kicked Dean, his head springing off the top rope. Dean wrapped his arms around the ropes, lifted his lower body, and punted Owens in the face. While Owens dropped to the ground, Dean pulled himself onto the mat. He was tired, sore. Spared about ten seconds while Owens returned to the ring.

Got an idea.

Dean looked directly into the camera, mouthed the words, "I'm borrowing this", and wrapped his fingers around his wrist. Moved them down and up his arm again in a swift motion, then knelt to his knees to punch the mat. He had faith Roman was watching.

From his hospital room, Roman grinned, swelling with excitement. "Yes!"

Owens returned to the ring on the official's count of seven. Dean was ready for him. He stampeded towards Owens, flew off his feet, and sent the Superman Punch into Owens's mandible.

Kevin Owens collapsed to the floor.

Dean shook his arms violently, circling Owens. He propelled his entire figure off the ropes and flew into Owens before the adversary could make a complete recovery of balance.

Dean pinned Owens. The ref counted to two. Owens kicked out. Dean shoved hair from his eyes and huffed. I was sure I had him there. Just need a little more…

Both were on their feet at once. They exchanged blows to the head, back and forth, until Owens stupefied Dean enough to grab his by the HH/HR shirt and fling him into the post. Dean's head smacked against the pole this time, and Dean crumpled to the floor. Owens lifted Dean onto the ropes, balancing him securely, then kicked his bent knee again and again against the ropes. He grabbed Dean's foot and swung the knee at a near one hundred and eighty-degree turn, slamming it against the pole. Dean fell backwards, his feet still trapped within the ropes, dangling upside-down like Spider-Man. Owens took advantage of this vulnerable position, striking Dean in the chest, the jaw, and especially that knee. He seemed to pick up on how injured it was at this point in the fight.

Dean grabbed the bottom ropes at his sides and forced himself into a flip, his feet colliding against Owens's face. The tumble caused Dean to hit the mat stomach-first. He crawled towards Owens's fallen figure and attempted another pin. One, two—Owens kicked out. Dean rolled onto his side, astounded and bruised.

Owens grabbed Dean and forced him to his feet. He held Dean from behind, one meaty hand over Dean's jaw, the other forcefully giving Dean's arm a shake. "Hi, Ro-Ro!" Owens sneered.

Dean thrust his elbow backwards, driving the bone into Owen's ribcage. He kicked Owens against the ropes. Not good for his knee, but the best defense he had. He threw his head back and cried out like a warrior, like his warrior, Roman Reigns.

Owens barely got two feet situated steady on the ground before Dean Speared him back to the mat.

God, I love him, Roman thought.

Dean pinned Owens. That Spear had done it.

The ref struck the mat and counted to three.

The crowd arose in fresh acclamation as Dean rolled off Owens, eyes wide in incredulity, color drained from his face. He felt his jaw falling. He'd done it. He'd—he'd actually pinned Kevin Owens and beaten him.

The United States Championship was his.

Dean lifted to his feet with a clear limp in his knee as the ref threw his arm into the air, and Lillian welcomed him as the new United States Champion. The belt was placed into his arms, and he cradled it like a mother with her newborn.

He kissed the plate once more. Lifted it above his head. Pointed a finger at the camera. "For you, Ro," he said, licking his lips. "This one's for you."

Tears rolled into Roman Reigns's eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he was so proud of his Dean Ambrose.

Kevin Owens was infuriated.

He plunged a mighty foot into Dean's knee. Something popped. Dean bellowed, dropping to one standard knee and the other, in a yet known way, fractured. Owens stood up, booting Dean's knee again and again in hostile umbrage. It took several seconds and four or five backup officials swarming onto the mat to finally steer Owens away from Dean. He was left on his back wincing, gasping, clutching the championship belt to his chest with one arm and the other, gripping his knee.

Roman nearly sprung out of bed in a rage. Right then and there he would have traded his soul just to be there for Dean, to annihilate Owens for what he did. "You lost, you sick fuck," Roman growled. "Get over it. Come on, Dean, get up."

The original official dropped beside Dean, asking if he needed assistance. To completely defy the older man, Dean rolled up on his own and lifted to his feet himself. He didn't need help. If he needed help, he wouldn't be here today on his own, taking a stand—and a fall or two—on behalf of the Shield.

He steadied himself with the top rope and sighed. The crowd cheered him on and on.

The Authority's music blared.

The audience fell hushed. Flared up in hisses and boos as Steph, Triple H, and Randy Orton swaggered down the walkway.

Dean, still leaning on the ropes for a bit of support, stared each of them down in determined vexation. They couldn't get to him. Nobody could.

"Congratulations on winning the United States title, Ambrose," Triple H spoke. He wasn't smiling. Nothing was for show here. No appearances to maintain, no reputation to lift high as he could. He was still angered, rightfully so, at the drastic measures Dean had taken to earn himself these fights today. Steph still had scratches on her face from when Dean had knocked her out with that coffee pot. He hadn't wanted to hit her, but he felt he'd become a completely different identity that night. Someone who wasn't afraid to hit a woman. He didn't want to be that man ever again. He never wanted anything to happen to drive him to that mental state.

But he also hadn't regretted the thought of action alone to stand up for his team.

"You get a nice little break now. Might wanna go get that knee checked out. Doesn't look like Rollins is here, either, so if you think you can't hold up your end of that little deal, just say so and we'll declare Randy Orton the victor."

"Never!" Dean barked.

"Have it your way then, lunatic."

It was all he had to say. Steph and Orton upheld their glares, heads turned, as they sauntered with Triple H back to the shadows.

Dean's arms shook as he held both championship belts tight. Two down, one to go.