Part three of four, and you guys do NOT want to miss this! Warning, though: angst and hurt Dean to follow before an epic chapter finish..

Michael Cole called it a hell of a day.

Neville defeated Stardust after a lengthy match with a Red Arrow. Big Show finished Mark Henry off with a Chokeslam. Ryback destroyed Rusev with a cradle suplex that left Rusev unable to stand for several minutes, to the horror of his dame Summer Rae. Team Bella lost against Team PCB, and New Day suffered a painful loss against the Prime Time Players for the Tag Team Championship.

Through every match, each loss and win, each cheer and frustrated sob, the entire night had been building up to Dean's match against Randy Orton.

He'd gotten checked out by the medical team. Although the staff could not say for certain, one medic believed Dean had a minor tear his meniscus. Dean was not crestfallen by the news. There wasn't much the team could do about it except ice the swelling area and wrap it tight in a bandage so Dean could still use his knee without it completely giving way.

"You be careful," one of the medics warned. "Orton sees you in this bandage, he's gonna be targeting it."

"He'll be targeting it anyway," Dean said, almost to himself. Orton wouldn't see the bandage through his black pants, but Dean hadn't a trace of a doubt that Orton had seen Owens's assault on him. The apparent limp in his walk following the match. Orton wasn't dumb. He knew.

Dean would just have to be the stronger man. One more match and it was all over.

Or was it?

He couldn't focus on the future. Had to pay attention to the present, the now. The consequences of tonight's actions would follow inevitably. Dean lived for it.

"I HEAR VOICES IN MY HEAD, THEY COUNCIL ME, THEY UNDERSTAND, THEY TALK TO ME…"

The crowd welcomed Randy Orton wholeheartedly. Some were opposing the Apex Predator, but most favored him. He was accompanied to the ring by Stephanie and Triple H, but moved onto the mat alone. Steph and Hunter remained outside.

Randy scaled the ropes and held his famous viper's position. Women all over the stadium were falling in love with him.

Backstage, Dean hopped from one foot to the other, waiting for his provisional entrance music. He bowed his head and sent a prayer and good wishes for Roman and Seth's swift recoveries.

"The Second Coming" blasted behind "Voices". Hunter and Stephanie glanced out at the walkway, unsurprised when it was Dean approaching in place of Seth, who wasn't here. Dean was dressed in Seth's tight black t-shirt, vest, black pants and tall boots. He didn't look towards Hunter or Steph. His eyes were on that ring, on his opponent. Orton was smirking. Dean couldn't wait to knock it off his face.

He hopped into the ring before an irregular audience reaction. Everyone liked Dean, and they were certain to cheer for him over Orton (or, at the very least, over the real Seth Rollins), but at the moment, these folks were still unsure exactly what was happening.

Their opinion didn't matter. Winning did.

"The following is a No-Holds-Barred match!" Lillian exclaimed in her microphone. "Introducing, the challenger…"

Dean's throat closed up. "What?" he wondered aloud. He spun around, grabbing the top rope, peering down at Hunter and Stephanie. "Who the fuck said anything about a No-Holds-Barred match?"

Hunter's bottom lip jutted out in sham innocence. "We announced it last week on Raw. If you'd been there, you would have heard. We had no way of letting you know otherwise."

Dean huffed, shoved his hair from his eyes. The rule of a No-Holds-Barred match was there were no rules. Well, perhaps one stipulation: falls must be made in the ring. Other than that, anything went, including weapons and outside interference.

Goddammit, Dean thought, his inner voice louder than Lillian's over his name. Goddammit, goddammit, fuck. But no, this doesn't change anything. I can still do this. I can and I will.

For Seth.

Believe that.

No wonder Orton was smiling so fucking huge. This had caught Dean off-guard, as planned by the three of them, probably. But it was a two-way road. Free range for all.

Dean would beat Orton to death if he had to.

Whatever got him that championship.

The ref held it above his head, as though the crowd had already forgotten what exactly this match was for.

Dean raised his fists. Bring it on.

Thrice the bell clangored.

Hunter had stripped of his tie, suit jacket and undershirt before the match began, and now a shirtless Triple H was ascending the apron quick as lightning. He lashed his arms out and wrapped them tight around Dean's neck, pinning the Lunatic Fringe in place. Dean coughed and wheezed against the exertion on his throat. He kicked his good leg back, trying to hit Hunter where it would count. Orton made his approach. Hunter pulled Dean's arms back far behind him, and Orton sent a kick into Dean's trachea. Dean spurted. Orton hit him again. Hunter let him fall. Dean cringed on the ground.

Orton flipped Dean onto his stomach and took his knee in a painful twist. He knew, he knew, of course he fucking knew. The official landed beside Dean, waiting for Dean to tap out. Dean cried out a furious refusal to do just that. He wasn't quite sure how to wriggle out of this position, but Orton switched gears. He lifted Dean again and flung him like an arrow out of a dart into the ropes. Dean's midsection caught on the middle rope, and he teetered somewhere between still in the ring and out of it. Orton took his leg and swung it into the pole, his knee pattering on the post. Dean's pain was audibly and visibly apparent.

But he wouldn't give up.

Dean used his good leg to his full advantage, striking upwards, hitting the Viper in the jaw. Orton spun, in a bit of a stupor. Dean kicked him again, his functioning foot jabbing Orton behind the knee, bringing him down. It was stupid to attempt a pin on him so early, this strong, but he had to go for it. Sure enough, Orton kicked out before the official could even hit the mat and begin his count.

Dean moved to wrap an arm around Orton's neck, but Orton beat him to the attack, spinning Ambrose completely around and yanking him to the ground in a swinging neckbreaker. It had a greater impact on the Lunatic Fringe than Dean expected. He felt stuck, unable to lift to his feet right away.

But Orton appeared to be done as he slithered away from Dean Ambrose.

It was someone else's turn.

Triple H wandered into the ring, a sledgehammer suspended over his shoulder. Dean didn't even notice Orton's disappearance nor Hunter's approach until he rolled onto his back, his body pulsing with waves of torment, and his eyes opened to Hunter towering over him.

He didn't even have time to react.

With a ferocious holler, Hunter brandished his famous weapon of choice, flogging Dean with the face of the hammer again and again. He struck Dean's knee, Dean's hand as it flew to the knee to shield it, then his chest twice, his ribcage, and as Dean flipped onto his stomach to protect his midriff, the delicate realm of his fleshy shoulder blades and his long, leaning spine.

Dean didn't want to cry. Not at all. He couldn't cry in front of the Universe, in front of Roman who he hoped and prayed wasn't watching at this very moment. But moisture burned behind his pressed eyelids. His hidden pupils were drowning, his eyelids plump with salty droplets.

Orton paced about Dean in a circle as he watched Hunter carry on his assault. Triple H paused when the ref made a halfhearted attempt to get him to stand down. But the official couldn't do much, considering there were no rules, no disqualifications, no restrictions. Dean was a plaything and Hunter was a spoiled child.

Hunter tossed his hammer aside and heaved Dean to his feet. The guy could hardly stand on his own, not even on his "good" leg. Triple H flung one of Dean's weak arms over his shoulder, and Orton took the same form with the other arm. Together they cast Dean Ambrose behind him. His body hit the mat like deadweight. He wasn't moving.

Dean was tempted to go to sleep. Take a little nap. Call it quits. The pain was unreal. Hunter's ambush, not to mention the unexpected shift in matches involving weapons and his own intrusion, hadn't been an entry on the list of things Dean expected in this match. He should have anticipated a stunt like this, though, of course he should have. Stupid. Stupid, stupid…

He felt an arm loop around his neck. Wasn't sure whose it was. Guess this is it. Fucking cheated and they get their reward for it…

But something changed.

Even with his eyes closed, his mind close to checkout, he could see it, sense it. The audience was diverting their attention to something else. The announcers were asking different variations of the same inquiry: who is that?

A name stuck out to him above the commotion.

Rollins! Rollins! Rollins!

Dean forced his eyes opened and looked towards the walkway.

Seth was there.

He was there.

Standing outside the ring, steady and still—alive, fucking alive—watching in on the match.

Dean blinked. Was he dreaming? Surely he was. Seth was in a coma in an Oklahoma hospital. There was no way in hell Seth Rollins was there at WrestleMania.

But the announcers were losing their minds over his appearance, knowing as well as Dean did about the reasoning behind his absence, the reason Dean Ambrose was fighting this match at all. The audience, for once in their existence, was celebrating his return. Seth was there, he was there, he was fucking there in the stadium watching Dean fight.

And he looked angry about the results so far.

Dean wanted to get up. Carry on in the battle. But this sense of enthusiasm was no match for his physical weakness. And Hunter and Orton, as shocked as they were to see Rollins there as well, weren't about to let them have a moment of celebration.

Hunter stayed in the ring with Dean while Randy Orton vaulted over the ropes and stormed towards Seth Rollins.