Honestly, Roman had a completely different vision for how this was supposed to play out.
It had been made plainly obvious, since the first day that he and Dean had met, that the latter hadn't had the easiest time in his life. People had hurt him, had abandoned him, had made him feel like he was nothing… and he'd like to think that he had shown him that no, that wasn't true. It had been another chance for him to show what he meant to Roman.
He hadn't expected Rollins to shatter their friendship days before prom, but that was fine. He knew his father was a snake when it came to the business world, but when Hunter came home, he was a decent enough guy. Maybe Seth had been the opposite. A decently bright kid, smart, clever - but when it came to him as a person, he was no better than his father in work-mode.
Maybe he should have seen it coming.
So he had insisted on Dean coming back with him after the dance itself - he intended on showing Dean a good night, whether that meant dancing (he didn't think Dean would mind that he virtually had no rhythm) or what might happen afterward, whether that meant ordering take-out and just hanging out, or…
…or.
They were supposed to be stumbling into Roman's hotel room long after dark, maybe all over each other, hands grabbing and lips biting.
Such was not the case.
It was just after eight when he and Dean walked into the hotel room, with Dean supporting as much of Roman's weight as he would allow, one arm swung around his lower back while his other held onto his wrist. The tears were long-gone, leaving a tight dryness on tanned skin, shoulders hunched so as not to put any strain on his back.
His back hurt like hell.
Dean carefully set him on the bed - one of two, facing a large dresser - and used nimble fingers to unbutton his jacket and dress shirt. There wasn't anything that could be said right now, not by either man, but Roman didn't care. He had nothing to say that would have any meaning behind it.
When Roman's gray jacket and white button-up were stripped off, he gets help taking them off his arms and tosses them to the floor. Of course, the movement and stretching makes him hiss in pain, and Dean inches away to look at the damage.
His breathing is shallow, but there's a rumble to it, like it's equal parts air and a growl.
All he says is, "Rollins is a dead man."
Roman doesn't have the heart to properly respond to that, though his unspoken words remain hanging heavy in the air.
Trust is dead to me.
"Hey. Lay on your stomach, big man - I ain't a doctor, but I can scrounge up an ice pack."
Dean had been a constant beacon of light since they had left the Inn, murmuring words of comfort in the air and providing none when it was warranted. A lot of the talking was done by the younger man, which suited him fine.
Roman was reluctant to move - he didn't want to turn his back to anybody else, was afraid of what might happen if he did - but eventually did with Dean's help, carefully being laid out on his stomach. He crossed his arms underneath him, unsure of what to do with them, and Dean shucked off his own jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his light-blue dress shirt. Setting the black jacket down, he looked at the little tub that would hold their ice.
"Damn it, I gotta go get ice. Hold on."
The quiet was welcomed, though Roman would be lying if he said he had wished he was alone again. The loneliness didn't last forever, Dean eventually came back and with a few extra towels and a backpack slung over his shoulder, and when Roman opens his eyes and levels gray eyes up at him, he realizes he'd let his eyes slip closed and that the corners of them were wet and stinging.
He places the bucket of ice on the bedside table and tosses his backpack and the towels on the other bed, Roman's eyes not leaving him the entire time; it's obvious in the way he's chewing on his lip, avoiding looking at the other's face, that he's not sure how to fix this. If he can. But the fact that he's here and not anywhere else is reassuring, because he's not sure how his state of mind would be if he were alone.
A groan escapes him, and it draws Dean's attention, worried blues leveling with tired gray. Without saying anything, the former carefully lays down on the bed beside Roman, who moves over just enough for Dean to fit comfortably next to him. Or, as comfortable as a couple of dudes with broad shoulders and a decent amount of muscles could get.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
Turning his head and adjusting so that he could rest his cheek on Roman's arm. "Ain't your fault." A shuddering breath escapes Roman, but before he could try to argue, Dean pushed on. "Don't even think about taking the blame for what that fuckin' skunk-stripe fuckhead did. You're a lotta things, but a traitor ain't one."
It's difficult for him to hear the words, but Roman closes his eyes and focuses on the warm weight of Dean's cheek on his arm, and he unfolds his arm to stretch it carefully across Dean's waist, who wiggles up a bit so the arm isn't over his throat, and breathes out through his nose.
"How's your back?" Roman asks quietly, letting himself focus on the only other person he cared about now. "He got you too."
"'s just a little sore. Not like he did to you."
"No. He did you worse. I heard way more on you than on me."
Dean shakes his head, but yeah, Rollins had gotten him a few extra times. Maybe out of spite. Angry and bitter and …jealous. But before he could argue, Roman continues.
"Besides. It ain't my back that's hurting."
Dean doesn't have anything to say about that.
It had taken a little while of heavy quiet, a lazy drag of a finger up and down Roman's arm for the bigger man to slowly ease into sleep, deep snores and soft breaths filling the room.
And Dean hadn't realized he'd joined him in sleep until he'd opened his eyes, bleary and feeling like less of a person, Roman's arm curled around his torso but not so much that he couldn't slip away if he wanted. Carefully lifting his arm and replacing where he'd been with his pillow so the other could hug something else, the light-haired goes to his backpack, sliding the zipper up and around and grabbing the Ziploc bag.
Unzipping it, he empties the contents of it inside the bag, zipping the backpack back up and kicking it to the side before he picks up the Ziploc and walks over to the bucket of ice. Taking off the lid, he pours the entire thing - some of the ice had melted, so cold water sloshes onto his fingers as he pours it, and he bites down a muttered fuckin' A - into the bag and closes it securely.
Plucking one of the towels and shaking it out, he wraps the baggy in it and secures it with a rubber band he'd found on the floor of his car. (How it got there, he didn't know, but it was pretty damned convenient.) Walking over to Roman's other side and running his palm over the big man's shoulders, he mumbles, "Ice incoming," and places the ice down onto a dark bruise.
The way Roman hisses and his body jerks makes his insides twist.
He was supposed to feel fucking happy, spending time with his fucking boyfriend - and damn it, that was a far less scary word when the object of his affections was someone like Roman - and it was supposed to be different.
Different.
Walking back around and picking up Roman's arm again, he smacks the pillow out of the way and wiggles his way back into the bed, anger seeping back into his skin, and there's this part of him that's nearly salivating at the thought of payback. But there's plenty of time for that later.
Turning onto his side and laying Roman's heavy arm over his hip, he curls up next to Roman, blue eyes looking over a face that looked too tired. His eyebrows drew in, aggravation setting in, impatience eating away at him. He wasn't sure whether he needed to go for a run or get in a fight. About ready to jump back up and try to do one of them, he feels Roman's arm tighten slightly around his waist, the bag of watered-down ice sloshing as he moved.
Well. Guess he was going nowhere.
Roman wakes up before the sun, but the alarm clock is unplugged, so he's not sure exactly what time it is; he's bleary, his back is close to numb, but he feels a little better than before, considering. Reaching back, he plucks the towel-wrapped Ziploc off of his back and sets it on the floor. Carefully rolling over, he moves his dark hair out of his face, a few pieces having slipped from his bun, and he reaches back to take out the tie, his dark waves falling over the pillow.
Giving his head a little shake, he shifts to set the tie on the bedside table before rolling back to pull Dean, somewhere between consciousness and not, close to his chest.
"'m glad you're here, D."
A murmured Mmmmmmhm is his answer, and that's fine, because while his words were eloquent of themselves, the slightly-shorter man huddles in closer, allowing the big man to hold him. That of course draws a deep chuckle out of Roman, lips pulled up in one corner, before he places a kiss - soft, warm, lingering - onto Dean's forehead.
The holidays had me completely swamped, hence the reason why I didn't get this up when I wanted to. Plus, I have been posting, just not on here, since after this chapter I think I'm going to solely stick to AO3. It's easier. I like it more. Ye.
Hope you all enjoyed your holidays, or your December, or whatever!
~Cookie
Just a final reminder: after this chapter, all future updates will be on AO3. I'll still keep this account open, to give those on here an update on stuff every once in a while, but in the great scheme of things you can read all my stuff over on my AO3, which is on my profile and my Tumblr page. Or, just search 'cookiethewriter' on AO3 and, there ya go. You'll find me and this story, as well as more ambreigns/my one romanxmox story.