There's breathplay in this chapter, near the end; please tread carefully.
Dean shows up at the following week's taping, even though he doesn't have a match. Roman's got a title match against the current Florida Heavyweight Champion, and Dean wants to see it, because he'll experience so much secondhand embarrassment if Roman doesn't win. The skill of the current titleholder is nonexistent, in Dean's opinion (and really, Dean's opinion is the only thing that matters).
And if Roman doesn't win, then hey, Dean can rub the loss in his face for the next three weeks.
But of course, Roman will probably remind him that he beat Dean and Seth, in one match.
Bastard.
Dean's rounding the corner in the hallway to the locker room on his way to look for Roman, hoping to catch him before his match (primarily to interrogate him over what happened on Sunday, but also maybe to make him lose his focus by making out with him a little… or a lot), when he collides with another body, the impact knocking him on his ass on the floor.
"Watch where you're going, asshole," he snaps before he even gets a good look at the guy, thinking that he might have to punch some sense into him. He climbs to his feet, making a big show of dusting himself off (Jesus Christ, he's turning into Seth), and finally, he chances a glance at the other guy, only to find that the pair of eyes staring back at him uncertainly belong to no other than Seth Rollins. Dean wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Shoulda known it was you, you always have your head up your ass," he quips.
"I was looking for you," Seth says, and he sounds so timid, and it's really fucking weird and unsettling. Dean kind of wants his cocky-asshole Seth back.
"Well, you found me. S'pose 's not what you meant, though. What do you want?"
Seth steps closer, most definitely invading Dean's personal space, and his fingers are toying with the hem of Dean's shirt, twisting it and turning it like he's a nervous child.
"Get off of me," Dean mutters, but he doesn't bother pushing Seth away. He waits impatiently for Seth to say something, anything, to start running his mouth like he's used to, bragging about his skills or his (former) championship or how big his dick is. But Seth doesn't say anything, just keeps fidgeting with the hem of Dean's shirt, staring at him with what he swears is fear in those big brown eyes.
"Are ya gonna talk, or do I have to beat it out of you?" Dean asks, halfway between perplexed and irritated at Seth's strange behavior. Seth inhales deeply, and then he finally speaks.
"I talked to my girlfriend." The statement sends an uncomfortable feeling Dean doesn't want to name rippling through him.
"What, you tell her about our little rendezvous, huh? The one with all three of us? Or did you tell her about when it was just the two of us? When you came to my door and fuckin' begged me to fuck you? Or when you acted like a fuckin' robot in the ring just 'cause you wanted a 'treat' from me?" Dean doesn't miss the way Seth's cheeks tint red, the other man ducking his head for a moment, as if he's embarrassed.
Good.
"Not really. I, um… just told her that we… y'know, kinda did stuff."
Dean grins maliciously. "Does she know you like takin' a dick up the ass?"
"Dean," Seth says urgently, whipping his head back and forth like he's paranoid someone is listening in on their conversation.
"Chill, princess," Dean says, reaching out and patting him on the head derisively. "Keep talkin', no one heard me."
"She already knows I'm bi. But, uh, she said it was okay for us to do stuff. Said she 'doesn't see you as a threat.' Stuff just has to be no strings attached," Seth explains, and Dean does his best to ignore the hot flash of offense he feels at the statement that Seth's high and mighty girlfriend "doesn't see him as a threat."
"Doesn't see me as a threat, huh? 'S what everyone says," he mumbles, mostly to himself. Then, to Seth, he says, "Of course it's no strings attached. Why wouldn't it be? Who fuckin' suggested there were any strings in the first place?"
"Dean," Seth says, and he's vaguely aware of Seth's hand curling over his forearm, but he's pissed, and no amount of small, subtle touches from the deceptive twink known as Seth Rollins is going to make him any less pissed.
"What makes you think I give a fuck about you?" he snarls, and maybe there's more venom in his tone than he intended there to be, because Seth flinches back a little, but he just keeps going. "Just 'cause we had a fuckin' threesome doesn't mean anything's changed. You're still just somethin' for me to stick my dick in. You don't mean shit to me. Never have, never will."
"Dean," Seth repeats, but Dean isn't willing to listen to Seth right now.
"Get off of me," he says, shoving Seth away forcefully, causing him to stumble backwards a few steps before he catches himself. "And for now… stay the fuck outta my sight."
There's something churning uncomfortably in his gut when he leaves Seth alone, the result of a feeling Dean absolutely refuses to name, mixing with the anger throbbing in his veins and the voice in the back of his head whispering that he was lying.
His anger has yet to cease when he finds Roman warming up for his match, although it lessens slightly when Roman spots him and flashes him his signature ridiculously handsome smile.
"Hey, Rome," Dean greets, leaning up against the locker beside Roman's as he watches Roman continue to warm up, admittedly leering at certain parts of Roman's body. "Wanted to ask you somethin'."
"Go for it," Roman replies easily without so much as a glance at him. Dean kind of envies his casual coolness.
"How come you pitched such a fit about kissin' Seth when I asked ya to do it, and then all of a sudden, you do it willingly right after gettin' your dick sucked?" It's a legitimate question that's been bothering Dean since it happened; he knows Roman's up to something, and he's determined to figure out what it is.
Roman pauses, turning to stare at Dean with that unreadable expression of his, like he's shut Dean out already. That thought only serves to make the anger he felt earlier relight itself, burning insistently within him.
The stare eventually dissolves into a long, exasperated-sounding sigh. "Do we have to talk about it?"
"Yes, we have to talk about it," Dean says, the corners of his lips pulling down into a frown as he crosses his arms over his chest. "What the fuck happened?"
"Heat of the moment thing," is the mumbled response Dean receives, tossed over Roman's shoulder like the shitty excuse it is.
"Bullshit!" Dean spits. "Fuckin' tell me what the hell's up with that! Are you and Seth fuckin' or somethin'? Cause if you are, you should just fuckin' say it, instead of hiding behind your stupid fuckin' mask of a face!"
He evidently sets something off in Roman, because in what can accurately be described as no more than half a second later, he's slammed up against the lockers, his shoulderblades digging into the cold metal as the heat of Roman's body pins him there, one of Roman's hands at his throat, fingers curled around it but not digging in, a small reprieve he's actually grateful for.
Roman's eyes are alight with what Dean can only describe as fire as he speaks, and it's actually kinda hot. "I don't have to explain myself to you," he says, his voice low and ice-cold, and Dean finds himself thinking that in another world, Roman would've killed him already. "I don't have to explain myself to anyone. Especially not you. I'll do whatever I fucking please, and it's not your business, so stop trying to make it your business. Just stay out of it and let me do my own damn thing, you understand?"
The way Roman can switch from warm and friendly and gentle to ice-cold and probably murderous in approximately 0.5 seconds is disorienting, but it's highly entertaining for Dean (and maybe a little arousing, but he won't admit it to Roman).
"I understand," he says, grinning mockingly at Roman, and Roman's eyes narrow, and the look Roman gives him sends an unexpected flare of heat through his body.
Then the fingers that are wrapped around Dean's throat squeeze, and Dean chokes a little bit as his air is suddenly cut off, and he feels the tiniest flash of panic within him, but it's snuffed out almost immediately by a surprising flood of warmth within him, something in him telling him that this is good, this is right.
He's pretty sure he's on the verge of passing out, his lungs screaming for air and his vision starting to narrow, when Roman lets go and steps back. Dean slides down to the floor, his legs essentially giving out as he sucks in deep lungfuls of air. He finally tips his head up to meet Roman's gaze, and Roman's looking oddly satisfied, a smirk curling up the corner of his lips.
"I'll see you later," Roman says, turning and leaving Dean alone, and all Dean can think about is how there's the slightest bulge in his jeans that wasn't there before, and how it shouldn't be there, but then again, he's always been a sick man.