Okay, is everybody ready for this? I mean, I know Seth and Roman aren't, but what about the rest of us?
Mandy, I think panicky but caring Seth is the best. Back in their Shield days he always used to hit the other really hard when he was congratulating them. I loved that, so I had to put a bit of that into this story. Yep, I've had a good week thank you. Hoping that you have too and wishing good things for you as always!
Rebel8954, So does that mean Parakeet Seth is better than Pomeranian Seth? And what animal will I think of next (my brain is already turning that one over!) But you are totally right, Dean isn't just fighting for himself. He's fighting for his parakeet and his Big Dog! Will that give him the edge? Well...
xXBalorBabeXx, Improvise you say? Well, Dean might have to do a *bit* of that. After all, I can't make his life too easy (lol!)
FreakinLunaticsYard, Moi? A tease? Surely not?! And I think we all know that matches have their ups and downs. But the question is, will Dean's match have more ups, or more downs? Hmm...
Cheryl24, Aww, come on, you know me. I never give away the ending (unless you give me chocolate or a puppy as a bribe).
XwwecoyoteX, They are the best not-real-brothers ever! As for Dean being put through the wringer? Well, I'm not going to give anything away, but you know how matches can swing from good to bad...
Minnie1015, I always have time to write some brother vibes. Glad you liked Dean sleeping in Seth's spot, I always like to imagine them so comfortable with each other that they just share everything. Plus who doesn't love a nice warm bed the night before being possibly claimed by a hillbilly weirdo!
Phoenix lord of rebirth, Aww, thank you. I like to flick between calm and crazy in my stories. Plus Dean needed a cute moment to remember exactly what he was fighting for; to stay with his boys.
So, are we ready? It's D Day!
Sixteenth
As far as Bray Wyatt was concerned, the match was working out perfectly.
For him at least.
In the run-up to their showdown he'd considered playing dirty and having his boys take out the other two. But in the end he'd decided to play it straight for once. He had to, otherwise Dean would never yield. If blackmail was used, or deceit or underhandedness, then no one would fully accept that Dean had been beat, and if he was truly going to make Dean into one of them, then it had to be legally.
But it didn't have to be nice.
He had seen Dean's fight as he'd swaggered down to the ring, and had seen the glinting eyes in the glow of the lights. He liked that Dean still had some moxie, because it would make it all the sweeter when he stamped him into the ground.
In his own head Bray wasn't sure of the outcome. Obviously he would win—he was in no doubt of that one—but what to do once he'd made the pin was troubling him greatly. What could he do? On the one hand he still wanted Dean to be punished and the fury inside him had the potential to take hold. He knew if left to it, that he genuinely might have killed Dean and strangled him to death the night before. That red mist was all encompassing and swirling inside of him, still just close enough to break free. Dean had turned them down, Dean had made fools of them, and as far as he was concerned there was no coming back.
However, mixed in with the rage of emotions was an undeniable yearning as well. She still liked Dean. Hell, he still liked him and it was the option of surrender—to make the Dean one of them—that had driven him to accept the match in the first place. Dean was an unpredictable soup of perfection, all twitchiness and bullishness and full-fucking crazy. He suited them, he belonged with them and Bray was getting desperate, like a child peering in through the window of a toy shop or a man who collected bright exotic birds. Dean was unique, there was no one quite like him, and he needed to be added to the Wyatt collection. But to do that, Bray was going to have to break him, and so that was exactly what he did, raining down blows before the bell had even sounded, and before Dean had lowered his US title belt.
Ding, ding.
Bray grinned wildly,
"Better keep up with me."
It was bellowed at everyone and no one all at once, and also at the referee who, despite being startled, was quick to try and take control,
"Come on, that's enough, that's enough. Let him up."
But Bray wasn't done and so he kept his fists pumping, pounding them solidly into Dean's head. For his part, the smaller man cradled his skull protectively, his taped-up hands trying to shield the meaty blows. He was squirming wildly, trying to wriggle out of it but making little progress and with nowhere to go. Finally the referee's yelling got too much for him and Bray staggered upright and brushed him right off.
Released from the salvo Dean gasped exhaustedly, one minute in and already feeling fucked. He'd known it would be a difficult match from the get go, and he also knew he had to draw Wyatt in, but Jesus his body was already screaming and his head thumped miserably, reliving each blow. Hauling himself upright he adopted a fighting stance, but stopped in confusion. Bray was fucking gone. Then suddenly a kendo stick slid across the canvas, attached to a chubby, Bray Wyatt shaped hand. Dean dropped earthwards and rolled out to ringside, watching his nemesis chuckle and grin.
"Come on now Deano, don't be nervous," he sang across the turnbuckle, eerie as fuck, "We got a lot to talk about, wouldn't you say now?"
For emphasis—or just for giggles—he whacked the weapon down on the canvas before picking it up and swirling it deftly like an overweight gymnast with a ribbon on a stick. Of course he would be fucking enjoying it. Bray was a psychopath, he lived for the pain, and particularly for inflicting it on others.
Dean backed up a step and waggled his fingers,
"You want me? Fine. Come get me Deliverance."
A flicker of annoyance passed across Bray's face and it made the hairs on Dean's neck stand on end. He wanted to rile him, he wanted to blind him, but he also wanted to avoid getting killed and the whole thing was a tightrope walk he'd never fucking practised.
Promise me you'll be fucking careful.
His oath to Seth already seemed superfluous and as Bray slid out of the ring with his weapon, Dean skittered backwards but kept up the taunts,
"You ever see the movie Albino Farm? Watched it the other day with my actual teammates, think we spotted a couple members of your clan."
Bray swung wildly and Dean ducked back out of it,
"You get yourselves an agent or was it like, one of those documentaries?"
As he'd been talking Dean had been moving, edging them slowly around the ring and towards the commentary post. After a while they drew in so close that he could hear Jerry Lawler's uneasy sounding talking,
"Whoa. Watch out now, they're getting a little close here."
"What in the world is Ambrose doing? He seems to be actually taunting Bray Wyatt."
"I told you Michael, the man is crazy."
"Crazy like a fox," Dean muttered to himself, before bracing for his next harebrained notion.
As Bray whirled the kendo stick up and then down at him, the smaller man dropped and rolled to one side. The weapon instead hit the edge of the announce desk and exploded in a shower of minute wooden rain.
Back on his feet again, Dean stood up grinning and watched JBL flick the shards from his hat. If he'd had the time he might have asked the big Texan what he thought his cowboy name might be, but unfortunately Wyatt rounded too quickly and forced him to leave Old West monikers to one side.
Blistering at him, Dean caught him with a forearm and knocked him off-balance, clutching his face. Keeping the momentum going, Dean tried again, then again and again until the crowd was chanting in unison with the blows and Bray was physically sitting on the table.
God the rush of adrenaline was powerful and drinking from it Dean spun around, opening his arms towards the braying masses and seeking their approval for a fifth and final punch. The screams gave him his unanimous answer but in the time it took him to draw his elbow, Bray was back up and coming towards him and fuck he wasn't normal. Who recovered from hits that fast?
Ducking beneath the reciprocal forearm, Dean reached round and grabbed Bray's head, swinging him and aiming him straight for the turnbuckle. Halfway there however, something else happened and suddenly Bray spun and reversed the damn hold. The momentum that Dean had created in his favor swiftly became an unstoppable force and he was powerless to stop himself taking the brunt of it as Wyatt slung him straight into the post.
His body slammed into it, then halted abruptly as his head, his spine—his whole fucking system—juddered like he'd just been caught in a smash. He actually felt his brain hit his cranium and his eyes went fuzzy as his legs caved in. He hit the matting chest first, arms open and lay there panting, wondering what had gone wrong.
He could hear Bray yelling but couldn't quite see him, only his outline through concussion blurred eyes. The Wyatt-man was shouting straight into the audience, arms flung outwards in triumph. Fucker. Dean's ears whistled shrilly so the content was lost on him but the chorus of boos still seeped through, so whatever the freaking hell Bray was bellowing, it wasn't being well received. Then suddenly the beard was hanging close by him and Bray was down on his hands and knees.
"You want more boy?" he shouted over the whistling, "You want more, huh? Get up, get up."
As he shouted he buffeted Dean's head, slapping him left to right with his hands. Dean jerked angrily and tried to get away from it but Bray was straddling him, pinning him down.
"I keep telling you, you don't get to win this."
Once again—and in spite of the shouting—Bray grew tired of his own game first and lumbered off Dean's aching spine before reaching over to drag him up. Grabbing a handful of the sticky damp curls, he lifted him bodily back into standing and then shoved him like a ragdoll back into the ring.
Dean lay there unmoving as Bray went to work, tossing in chairs and trash can lids and adding another damn kendo stick too. Dean's head spun with it and his eyes remained blurry. Get up Dean—he could hear Seth shouting—come on you idiot. Dean, get up. But before he could respond to the mental directive, Bray was lumbering towards him again and pulling him harshly onto his knees. In his other hand he held a dazzling trash can and once Dean was steady, he hefted it up.
"Oh no," Lawler screeched from somewhere behind him, "Look at this. Get out of there Dean."
It's okay Jerry, Dean smiled half-dazedly, shipping out a sudden fist. It connected, hard, between Bray's kneecaps and then drove upwards, earning a groan. Seconds later the trash can clattered earthwards and Bray dropped down heavily onto his knees, momentarily he swayed unnervingly in front of him and then he toppled sideways, holding his groin.
Michael Cole half exploded behind them,
"Low blow. Dean Ambrose just connected with a low blow on Bray Wyatt!"
"That'll do it," JBL chuckled as the males in the arena all ooohed as one. Staggering to his feet again, Dean grabbed the trashcan, heaving it directly onto Bray's head. The bigger man went down, face first onto the canvas and Dean kept on hitting him, head, shoulders and back. He stopped only when the trash can flattened and then threw it across the ring ropes, the triumph creeping in. It was time to enact his master strategy and rolling from the ring he climbed physically underneath it on the hunt for something he knew would be there. Something he had set up three hours earlier. The whole entire reason that he and Bray were there.
When he'd first given Roman the small cardboard package, their Big Dog had looked at him, frowning in surprise,
"Hold on, that's it?"
Dean had shrugged mildly,
"Yeah, why, what were you expectin'?"
"Well I don't know, something bigger I guess, something more impressive, you know? It's just, when you said you had something to frighten Wyatt, I didn't think it would be a little box."
Dean had sighed and prodded him to the doorway,
"Will you trust me already? I'm tellin' you it will work."
"So you want this?" Roman had waggled it, "Hidden somewhere under the ring?"
"Right, like, over near the commentary side. Just make sure no one sees you under there, the last thing I need is someone taking it out."
Roman had grinned at him,
"Hey, remember? I'm a fucking ballerina."
"Please don't make me picture you in pink."
Roman had returned not fifteen minutes later and lifted his fist for a victory bump.
"All done brother, it's there when you need it."
Well, now he needed it, now was the moment. His plan was in action. Now or never. Do or die.
Scrabbling around Dean shoved aside the debris and god did they keep some shit under the ring. For a horrible second he was scared he wouldn't find, it but then he knocked aside a trash can lid and there it was. His anti-Wyatt box. As he grabbed it, Dean's body flooded with gratitude. Well done big guy, never doubted you man. But his triumph was fleeting because suddenly he faltered as a chubby hand caught his ankle, hard. Bray was up again and hauling him backwards, dragging him out by one fucking leg.
No.
Dean's fingers scrabbled wildly across the smooth cardboard, frantically trying to keep his grip, but they slid off it helplessly somewhere on the fringes as he was dragged into the open and half-blinded by the lights. Rolling over onto his back, Dean's heart turned somersaults. Bray was looming over him, half mad with fury—and hopefully no small amount of pain—and before Dean could even react or kick out at him, the bigger man was on top of him and pounding his head.
"I would have given you everything," he screamed, as flecks of his spittle rained down on Dean's cheek, "She wanted you and I couldn't get you to her. You made me let her down."
Evidently Bray had reached some sort of tipping point and rather than reigning back, he'd completely collapsed. His sanity—which had always been held on by loose thread—had broken and any vague ounce of control had gone down with it. Bray was fucking mad.
With Dean once again pinned down beneath his hipbones, Bray reached out and grabbed at a cord. He didn't care what it was attached to—in this case, a cameraman—all he really cared about was making Dean pay and as the smaller man's eyes came back into focus and saw the thick cable held tight in the hand, his whole body shuddered right the way through Bray's pelvis, and the panic rose up and shone in his eyes,
"Fuck, no—,"
But Dean wasn't able to get the damn word out, as Bray pushed his hands off and wound the cable round his neck. Just touching the previous day's bruises was agony and so the pressure from the ligature felt like a knife. Abruptly Dean's whole body started to scream at him and he was powerless to stop it, or kick out.
Fuck, fuck.
"Bray—," he choked out in a desperate half-gasp as he gazed up into the murderous face.
Push Bray, break Bray. That was the intention, but typically he'd pushed him a fraction too far and the Wyatt man had totally snapped.
Okay, that was it. Dean was going to die there, surrounded by cameras and fans and JBL, and as the cable pulled tighter and closed off his windpipe, he desperately threw out a hand. It connected firmly with something wooden and as his fingers groped over it he realised what it was. Another fucking kendo stick. Had the company bought the damn things in bulk? If breathing hadn't been practically impossible, then he might have almost laughed about it, although in the end it was all he could do to simply lift it up. Bray didn't notice—he was too fucking out of it—and so drawing on his last reserves, Dean swung it heavily up at Bray's face and listened to it hammer right into the arch of what had previously been Bray's nose.
Crack.
Almost immediately the ligature loosened and Bray launched backwards with an agonised howl. A faint trail of blood sprayed up from out of him, but Dean didn't have enough time to smile at that. Frantically pulling off the rest of the cable, he hauled himself upwards and hit Bray again, over and over, wielding his weapon until the Wyatt man was lying sprawled out on the floor.
Now Dean, do it now, his head screamed wildly and stumbling back towards the ring he grabbed the box from under the canvas and tore it open like a kid with a gift. Inside lay handcuffs and a pointed contraption that Dean left in place as he unsteadily lurched back. Dropping to his knees beside the moaning Wyatt, he grabbed a chunky wrist and snapped the first cuff around, before bodily hauling his nemesis to the ring post and proceeding to draw the shackles around. As the second cuff clicked into place, Bray reacted and kicked out a foot in the direction of Dean's head. The smaller man stepped back a pace and then stood unmoving as Wyatt, the announcers, the arena and he all came to the same incontrovertible conclusion.
Bray Wyatt was trapped. He couldn't fucking move.
The flood of relief it caused was near instantaneous, and Dean dropped back against the announce desk, spent. Thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck, it was literally all Dean's poor brain could think and he stood for a second, panting and watching as Bray growled angrily and tried to escape.
"You'd better let me out boy. I said let me out."
Dean eyed him warily and then smiled across at him, noting the veins bulging and wildness in his eyes. Despite his size, Bray's energies were useless and the more he tried to twist and pull, the more pain he caused. Even a bellow and an all out heave did nothing to loosen the hard, biting metal. Bray was going nowhere and that amused Dean immensely.
"You like that Wyatt?" he sing songed cockily, "Gettin' a taste of what I went through when you locked me in that truck? If you like, I can gag you and turn all the lights off. Really give you the whole damn works."
Bray snorted angrily, his whole face twisted,
"I was helping you.I was making you stronger."
Dean picked up the kendo stick and grinned at him wickedly,
"Okay, your turn."
The he swung it with a crack. Around him the audience screamed in approval and so Dean kept hammering at any part of flesh he could see. To his credit, Bray took it like some pre-programmed android, but his face winced mildly with every last hit and that was enough to keep Dean going right until he'd almost worn himself out. Fuck it was cathartic, and after everything he'd been through he didn't just deserve it, he needed it too. But somewhere, something niggled inside him and told him to back off. Don't be like Bray. The sentence stopped him and a chill shivered through him. How easy it would have been to tip right off the precipice, to become the thing he hated the most, and so panting heavily he dropped the stick down with a flatter and instead looked up into the fury darkened eyes.
"That all you got boy?" Bray half-chuckled, but the tone was pinched and wearied with pain, "Gonna take a lot more than that to beat me."
Dean smiled forebodingly,
"Oh, I know."
Turning, Dean moved back to his Secret Weapon Box—which he was beginning to regret not having had stamped on the side of it. He'd already made good use of the handcuffs, but now he was looking to utilise the rest and reaching in he pulled out a metal object, shaped a little like a futuristic gun. Behind him the announce desk strained to get a look at it,
"What in the world is that?"
"Oh no."
"Is that what I think it is?" JBL offered, leaning closer in his chair, "Is that a tattoo gun?"
Yes, yes it is.
Swaggering up to his pinioned quarry, Dean smiled eerily, his eyes wide and bright. Bray said nothing, watching him closely and more importantly, watching the tool in his hand. Dean's eyes followed it and he interpreted the question, pointing to the implement then reacting in surprise,
"What, this?" he asked blithely, "I know, freaking cool right. And it's cordless. I guess it works on like, batteries or shit."
Chuckling at his own sense of genius, Dean leaned over and nudged Bray in the side. Rage-tinted eyes glared back at him unblinking and Dean grinned again, moving into his stride,
"Go ahead an' do something for me, will ya? Cast your mind, oh, about two weeks back when you had me tied up an' fuckin' helpless an' were tryin' to carve your name in my chest."
Briefly the lighter tones twisted in fury and a dangerous glint crept into Dean's gaze. He shut his eyes lightly to block out the images and opened them again with an unnerving grin. Bray shifted mildly, but Dean saw it anyway and knew what it meant. Bray Wyatt was actually, genuinely uneasy and the knowledge of it drove the smaller man on. When he spoke again, his tone was lighter but the menace lingered and sharpened his eyes,
"Remember that, huh? Remember heatin' up your hunting knife? Well here's the deal Wrong Turn, tonight I'm going to be the one branding you."
And in the interests of finishing with something of a flourish, Dean pressed a button and the machine whirred to life, pumping the needle up and down madly like it had a tattoo quota to meet.
Dean laughed brightly,
"Whoa-ho, we got ourselves a fast one! Now where do you want it, torso or head?"
Bray sneered back at him,
"You ain't gonna do nothing boy."
"Oh really?"
The insanity flickered again like a spark and Dean jerked his head to one side and chuckled, drawing up his shoulder to almost tap his cheek. It wasn't a real tick—just something he affected—but the impression it created was a powerful one, and he watched as Wyatt's cold-eyed cockiness gave way to inklings of real unease. Seeing it, Dean moved to ramp up the tension, flicking his tongue out like some kind of snake and sliding it the length of his upper lip slowly. He kept on grinning, although he didn't once blink and the uncertainty it conjured was a beautiful thing. How many times had Wyatt grinned down at him? How much joy had he gained from Dean's pain? That toothy smile still damn near haunted him and the payback was every bit as sweet as he had hoped.
Quickly Bray's head spun back towards Gorilla and Dean snickered cruelly and tapped the tattoo gun in his hand,
"Hopin' for the cavalry? Yeah, I've been there. But let me guess what's happened here. My guess—and hey, at this point I'm just spit-balling—but my guess is that you told your boys not to interfere, to leave you to it. Am I right? Hell, that's what I told mine," breaking off and opening his arms out, Dean laughed broadly, like he was telling a joke. Bray glared back at him, murderous and unspeaking, and in the silence Dean carried on full steam ahead, "I'm guessing you thought you could beat me outright. You wanted to prove to the whole world that you won. See, I know that's what you thought, because I know you."
Bray looked back at him and snorted,
"You don't know shit."
Dean reacted as if mildly offended,
"What? You think you're the only one in this place who watches people? Who sees what makes them tick? Well you're not and I've been watching you Wyatt. I've been watching you real good and when you had me trussed up in the back there, I learnt more about you than I ever needed to know. I mean, at first, it was kind of a buzzkill, you know? All that darkness and the buzzards and weird sisters and shit. But now, well, look at us. For me, it's been worth it. All I've got left to do is this one little thing,"
Moving forward with the tattoo gun held high, Dean side-stepped the attempted kick out, driving his elbow into Bray's stomach and listening to the air flood out in a hiss. As his nemesis coughed, Dean rolled back into the ring again, crawling quickly across the bouncing canvas and leaning out beyond the bottom rope. Bray was still pinioned to the turnbuckle beneath him, facing outwards, totally trapped. The bearded head moved side to side keenly as if trying to work out where Dean had gone, and smiling deliciously Dean grabbed the brown pelt and tugged it back sharply, earning a growl,
"Miss me?" he chirped.
The needle was still whirring and faced with the reality, Bray stiffened up. What he didn't do however, was panic and instead he moved into all-out fight,
"Come on Deano, you ain't gonna do this, you ain't got the guts boy. You're too scared."
Dean snorted. He knew what Wyatt was doing, the bigger man was trying to call his bluff. Deep down everyone thought Dean would back out of it. Hell, they probably thought the company would back out of it too, and in essence they were right. But no one really knew that and that made Dean strong. Reaching a hand out and dodging Bray's teeth-snap, Dean smiled darkly and pushed down Bray's shirt,
"Now, where's it going to be? Across the pectorals?" his hand came back again to tap at his chin, "You know what? No, that's too borin' and Hunter wanted this to be a showstopper, right? This time I think we'll go for the forehead."
Grabbing at Bray's hair again, Dean pulled it backwards and angled up the gun,
"You rather initials or the whole thing? I think initials. Dean Ambrose is a long-ass thing to have on your head. I might have to tail it off or tattoo some on your ear."
"You won't—,"
Dean's gaze turned several shades darker,
"Watch me," he growled, then lowered the gun.
"Oh my god!" There was Jerry Lawler, followed swiftly by the rest of the gang. Michael Cole was trying to describe it while John Bradshaw Layfield was providing citizen's advice,
"Somebody call the police. This is an assault."
Dean chuckled as the crowd exploded with noise. It was a strange one—caught somewhere between joy and astonishment—but it worked to Dean's advantage whatever that was, for coupled with the needle humming near his forehead, Bray bucked and nearly fucking shrieked at him,
"No!"
Dean took the needle away and peered down at him with a mirror-image frown of pseudo-concern,
"What? You want to switch the design up? 'Cos I gotta tell you man, I'm busy workin' here."
Bray struggled wildly, his hands turning purple and twisting his head he looked up towards Dean,
"You fucker—,"
"That ain't nice. I'm doing this for free."
"When I get out of these cuffs—,"
"You'll have my name tattooed on your head. Good luck explaining that to your girlfriend, or your sister, or your mother or whoever it is you sleep with."
Lowering the gun again, Dean touched the forehead, fleetingly but enough to make Bray explode,
"Stop—,"
"You know," Dean interrupted, brightly and smoothly, "You can make this stop if that's what you want. All you've got to do is one little thing for me and tap out or forfeit and then I'll be—,""
"No."
Bray jerked his head to one side and hit Dean's hands, earning himself a sigh of resignation,
"Fine, just for that, I'm adding my middle name, although, I say middle name, it should be names plural. We've got Irish blood in us, got to represent the saints. Maybe I should write it in a loop from your cheekbones, or we'll never fit this sucker in."
As the humming drew closer, Bray shut his eyes,
"Go fuck yourself."
"If I could do that, I wouldn't be here."
Then as something tapped against his jawline and sent a vibration right through his teeth, Bray jerked his head sharply and let out a bellow, fully out-crazied with his stomach tied in knots.
"Alright."
Dean paused,
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
"You win," Bray's trapped hand fluttered up against the metal, "I'm out, you hear me? You fucking win."
The words came out like music to Dean's ears and for a second it was so unreal he thought he hadn't heard it. He'd won? He'd really fucking won this thing? Turning towards the ring crew he snatched up a microphone, terrifying a lackey who was sitting on a chair. Switching it on, he ground out into it the words that would bring his victory home,
"Nice and loud Wyatt, so everyone can hear it. What did you just say to me?"
Bray blinked warily and then slowly, very slowly, moved his head towards the mic,
"I said you win."
"Which means you've lost—the match and our little deal. Am I right?"
Bray eyed him darkly, the orbs were still glinting but his voice sounded stretched and tempered with pain. Wetting his lips, he leaned closer,
"Looks like I'll have to leave my little Shield boy alone."
Dean eyed him back again, matching the intensity.
"Say the words Wyatt. Say what I want to hear."
"I quit."
"You hear that?" Dean barked in triumph, turning and finding out the black and white shirt, "You heard that right? You saw him tapping? You know what to do, man. Go get it done."
The referee paused, looking back and forth between them and for the second time in as many nights, Dean realised he'd stumped the crew into inertia. At a final grunt from Bray however, the referee spun into action again, whirling one arm in the air and shouting, beckoning the sound that would have it approved.
Ding, ding.
There it was and fuck it sounded wonderful.
"Ladies and gentlemen, as the result of a submission, here is your winner, Dean Ambrose."
The snarl the announcer added to his surname made the sentence all the more satisfying, as if Dean was some scrappy junkyard mutt who'd triumphed over the big ugly guard dog. He liked that image, it suited them both and he stayed with it as the referee lifted his hand up. Around them, en masse, the crowd went crazy and as he gazed from row to row he couldn't help notice the celebrating faces and that fact that everyone looked happy for him. Dean drank it in. He liked that feeling, that sense of having everybody on side for once.
Dropping his arm again the referee moved away from him, sliding back over to check in on Bray. For his part, the Wyatt man was still hanging stoically, arms pinned tightly and unmoving above his head. His face was blank and devoid of emotion, but to Dean it said everything and what it said was I lost. He'd beaten him. No more Wyatt torment.
Suddenly he felt the canvas bouncing, but he didn't need to turn round to work out who it was. There were only two men who were going to be out there and the younger one threw tight arms around his head.
"You did it man," Seth bellowed at his ear lobe, bringing his head down to rest against his chest. With his free arm he was repeatedly slapping Dean's bicep and doing it so rapidly that he almost made it hurt. Not that Dean cared, since it would have taken more than bruising to bring down his elated mood, "I knew you could do it. You kicked ass."
A pair of arms joined in from behind him and judging from the size and tattoo they were Roman's, looping around his shoulder blades strongly and pulling him backwards against the broad chest. The big dog's head pillowed down on his collarbone and the three of them stood there—well, sort of, Seth bounced—drinking in their teammate's conquest and letting the weeks of tension lift off.
Everything seemed right with the world in that moment. He had his brothers, his victory, his hard-won belt and best of all he had his pride back, and a sense of self-worth he didn't know he'd even had.
"Come on," Roman murmured, ruffling his damp curls and starting to steer him off towards the ropes. He stopped as his colleague spun around again quickly, halting the bigger man dead in his tracks, "What is it? Dean?"
His teammate didn't answer him, simply starting down at an item on the ground. Bending down, Dean picked up the tattoo gun, still whirring merrily away on its own. Crossing back towards the turnbuckle, he lifted it over his enemy's head, watching the bearded face jerk backwards and then take a breath as the humming motion stopped. Dean kept the contraption hanging in front of him and Bray's eyes narrowed, zoning in on the point. It took a few seconds, but finally he got it. There wasn't a needle. It wasn't a real gun. His subconscious had done the legwork for him and Dean had just talked his way around. The realization made him bellow in fury and above him, Dean chuckled.
"Yeah, I know right? It sucks, but a deal's a deal man and you just made one. See you around and, oh, I almost forgot—," sliding his hand down into his pocket, Dean pulled out a tiny silver key. He swung it briefly in front of Bray's eye line and then placed it carefully down on the post, well out of reach of Bray's fat fingers, "I'll leave this here. I'm sure one of your hairy fuck boys will be along soon. Or maybe they won't, you know, maybe they'll be free now," Dean tipped his head cruelly, "I mean, isn't that what you always wanted? Don't you want them to be safe?"
He watched a flicker of alarm shiver across Bray's shoulders as his own cruel words made a mark on his psyche. Dean felt no remorse, in fact he liked it. They said that revenge was a dish best served cold and his was fucking frozen solid.
Behind him, the copper blonde heard Seth snort wryly and smirking along with him, he patted Bray's head.
"Sleep tight man, don't let the inbreeding bite."
Then he stood up, with Roman's arm around one shoulder and his title belt hung over the other. It was done. It was over. Dean Ambrose was a winner. He'd never fucking doubted it.
Well, maybe once.
Okay folks, one more chapter of this baby and then she's done. See you next week!