A/N: Thanks as ever to everyone still reading and who's left reviews. Couple things about this one - no Regal. Holding off his appearance 'cuz it didn't fit. Trust me. The back story arc here will conclude next chapter. Really nothing else to say. You'll see. Strap in, kids. Let's get weird. Enjoy.
XVI. Doggies and Rabbits
It took Dean a few seconds to figure out who the little girl in the corner was.
Tiny thing with familiar thick, wavy dark hair, bone white skin, and black-hole eyes. White dress dirty at the hem. Scabby, knobby little knees and bare feet. Six, maybe seven years old.
She stood there in the corner by the door, peering out at him solemnly like one of those creepy little kids in a horror movie.
("Redrum.")
Something cold crawled down his spine when he sluggish brain finally connected the dots about where he'd seen her before, and he'd have recoiled if his fucking ankle wasn't tethered. As it was, he sat up and tugged the ragged flap of blanket up over himself as much as he could, making sure his nakedness was covered.
The dim, dirty shack suddenly felt so closed-in, like someone really had slammed the lid shut on his coffin.
He ran his dry tongue over his drier lower lip, blinked at the staring little girl, and finally croaked, "How the fuck'd you get in here?"
Because he couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea she was a dream.
Her eyes - hard to tell what color they were in the dim, but he vaguely remembered they'd been the same blue as Bray's - widened like a couple of saucers. "You said the bad swear," she gasped.
"W...uh." Dean scrubbed a hand over a face in desperate need of a wash and shave shave. Little kid, he reminded himself. "How did you get in here? I - didn't see the door open."
She made her way out of the shadows and over to the edge of the mattress, her tiny little feet not leaving the faintest footprints in the soft dirt. Her surprisingly sweet smile revealed a couple of missing front teeth. "I've been with you for a while, little hound. You just couldn't hear me 'til now. Lots of noise in your head. Too many bad men."
Almost lazily, Dean swiped out a hand at her, some half-assed thought about maybe grabbing himself a hostage compelling him.
He didn't even know why it surprised him when his hand encountered nothing but air.
Before he could voice his confused question - the fuck is going on here? - she giggled, high and childish and gleeful. "That tickles! Stop it!"
"I didn't touch you," he said stupidly. "Who are you? What is this? What the hell is going on?"
All at once, her smile disappeared. She stamped her little foot. The dirt didn't stir. "Don't swear!"
"Oh wonderful," Dean muttered, flopping back onto the filthy mattress. "Now my hallucination is yelling at me."
"What's a ha-hallucinayshun?"
"Means you're a figment of my imagination, kid." Gruff. He didn't look at her. "You ain't real. And I don't know why I'm still talkin' to you."
"'Cuz you gotta. Me 'n you are gonna play. We're gonna such great 'venchers together." When she spoke next, it sounded like she was further away. "It'll be fun. You'll see. I'll show you."
"Ventures? What?" Impatiently, he shook his head. "I don't wanna play. I don't wanna see. You're not real. Go 'way."
"I am too real," she huffed. "Am too am too am too. Ask Bray."
Dean glowered at her. "I don't wanna ask that crazy assho-"
"Don't swear!" she insisted.
"-jerk, then," he muttered. Idly, he wondered if he'd maybe hit his head or something when they'd dumped him in here. "I don't want to talk to Bray. I just wanna get outta here and go home. And you can buzz off back to Whoville, Cindy Lou Who-"
"Abigail," she shouted at him. "Why are you so mean?"
("She passed away a long time ago.")
"Are you kidding me?" he snapped right back. "I've been kidnapped and chained up like a dog by some backwoods psychopath and I'm sitting here talking to a hallucination. I don't care what Bray wants. I don't care about any 'bad men' or ventures or rabbits or anything. I just want to get out of here. So unless you're some kinda magician who can make a key-" he rattled the chain around his ankle "-appear outta nowhere, go away!"
"Not a rabbit," she said suddenly.
Derailed once again, he stared at her. "What?"
Her too-bright, gap-toothed smile then sent a cold chill up his spine. "You're my doggy."
"Huh?"
She touched a finger to her lips. "It's a secret. Don't tell. I hafta go now. We'll have lotsa 'venchers soon, sleepy doggy. Bye-bye."
And with that, she turned and ran off into the corner, fading until she disappeared.
All at once, Dean jerked awake in a pitch-dark, silent shack, his mouth dry as cotton and his head pounding like he'd had a whole bottle of whiskey.
"Oh, what the fuck?" he mumbled, swiping at his mouth.
("Don't swear!")
The only thing he heard were the muffled reeps and creaks of the night outside of where the fuck this was.
xXx
December 9, 2013
CM Punk's carcass hit the barrier with a weak thump when Dean threw him out of the ring.
The crowd jeered him pretty heavily.
Roman moved in closer, but paused when he saw Dean jump out of the ring and bear down on Seth, chest puffed out. "Back the fuck off, Seth. I can do this. You think I can't do it? Huh? You think I can't?"
"What are you talking about?" Seth yelled over the crowd's jeering. He looked confused. "You got it. I know. Go get hm."
"Just back off!" Dean snapped at him.
Roman, seeing the asshole's twitchy restlessness, moved in close just in case those fists tried to fly Seth's way. Ambrose was hot enough and out-of-control enough it wouldn't have surprised Roman a bit to see it.
As if sensing Roman's presence behind him, Dean spun on his heel. "Hey, you back the hell off, too. I don't need you in my way. I got this."
"Oh, we're in your way, are we?" Roman said, smirking. "That so?"
He had to admit, part of him was kind of enjoying watching an injured Punk kick Dean's ass pillar-to-post. Oh, Dean was hanging in there, but with Punk's ribs as bad as they were, no way this match should have gone on this long - no way.
I could've had him in five minutes, Roman thought smugly.
Ambrose got up in his face and snapped, "I got this, Roman. Back off. I don't need you guys here. I got this."
"Well, if you got it," Roman said, gesturing at Punk, "then stop yapping at me and get him."
Rage had sparks alight in Ambrose's eyes as he spun around to throw Punk back into the ring.
Too much time had gone by, and of course, Punk had time to recover, and of course Punk made Ambrose his bitch right there in the ring, managing to hit the GTS bad ribs and all.
Roman and Seth swarmed the ring and Roman sawed Punk in half with a spear - that never gets old - as Seth scraped Ambrose's sorry hide up off the canvas.
Halfway to the back, Ambrose jerked himself out of Seth's grip and stalked off on up ahead. Seth exchanged eye rolls with Roman, who just shook his head.
As soon as they got past Gorilla, Seth touched Roman's arm. "I gotta hit the pisser real quick. Make sure he doesn't trash the locker room, okay? I'll be right there."
Roman nodded and hurried to catch up, skirting past some production people and suits who were scurrying around like mice in a maze.
He found Ambrose in the locker room, already pacing across the back, sweating like hell, eyes blazing, balled-up tense. Muttering. Scratching. He looked like a junkie having serious withdrawals.
Those mad-dog eyes, rabid and fiery, settled on Roman's. "You know, if you two had just stayed outta my fucking way like I told you to, I would've had him. But you just had to distract me, didn'tcha, Rome? Bet you thought that was fucking hilarious."
"No, I didn't," Roman said. With an effort, he managed kept his fists at his sides. "His ribs as bad as they were, you should've been able to take him."
"Yeah, no fucking shit," Ambrose snapped. Light flared off his earring when he turned to pace away. "The fuck were you two doing out there?"
"Watching you make an ass out of yourself," Roman shot back. He planted himself in the center of the room, out of Ambrose's way. He wasn't about to let himself get steamrolled by this bullshit. "If you'd finished him off when he was down instead of acting like a jackass, you would've had him. That's twice now your damn mouth's wrote checks your ass couldn't cash. And I'm getting real tired of picking up after your messes."
All at once, Ambrose jerked to a stop. "I didn't fucking ask you to," he growled. "I don't fucking need you to. I didn't need you two out there at all. It's your goddamn fault he beat me."
"Oh-ho, I see how it is," Roman laughed. "Me and Seth made you lose. Right. Okay. Couldn't be because you were so busy worrying about me and Seth you gave Punk time to get his legs under him. No, it's that not you just flat-out blew it again. It was me and Seth being out there to have your back that made you lose. Gotcha."
"You got in my way," Ambrose muttered. "I told you not to."
"You got in your own damn way."
"Fuck you." Ambrose started pacing again. "Jerk."
Roman stood there watching him, at once smug that he'd been the one to plant Punk onto the mat and angry at Ambrose's shitty attitude. Those two things together - cocky anger - were never a good combination, because those were the times his mouth tended to get away from him.
It didn't happen often - he usually had control over himself - but tonight, he said, "Well, hey, since you're taking pins from people tonight, Dean, wanna let me pin you when we get to the hotel? I bet I can take your mind off all this. And, unlike Punk, I guarantee I'll make it worth your while."
Oh, but if looks could kill, he'd have been a pile of ash and hair on the floor.
Oops.
Okay, maybe that had been taking it too far: a night like tonight, with Ambrose rage-red and eyes blazing like bonfires, that was probably the last thing he should have said.
He took a step back, conciliatory hands raised. "Whoa," he said quietly as Seth made his way back into the room, "hey. Chill. It was just a joke. I wasn't serious. Just trying to lighten the mood here. I'm sorry. Seriously. But it was just a joke, Dean."
Ambrose, meanwhile, grabbed his stuff and stepped around a blinking Seth. "Yeah, well," he said through his teeth, "shove your joke and your pin up your own ass, Rome. I'm outta here."
"Hey, wait a minute," Seth said, sounding confused and alarmed. "Dean, what the hell…?"
Of course Ambrose didn't stop.
Good, Roman thought. Good damn riddance.
A deep frown carving grooves into his forehead, Seth turned Roman's way. "What the fuck just happened?"
Roman, nothing the trouble on Seth's face, shrugged. "I was just trying to joke around with him," he said reasonably. "Lighten things up. Guess he wasn't in the mood for it." He stepped forward and dropped both hands on Seth's shoulders. "You okay? You look tense."
"Yeah, fine," Seth said. "Just - the fuck was that out there tonight?"
"He's just getting up in his head about shit," Roman said, thumbs lightly caressing Seth's collar bones. "Getting cocky. Much as I hate to say it, maybe losing a few will knock him down a peg. I don't like it. I don't like losing. But maybe he needs a wake-up call. Needs to see he needs to stop talking a big game if he can't back it up."
Seth's mouth tightened. "Yeah, well, losing's making us all look bad."
Roman sighed. "I know, baby. I don't like it either, but maybe it won't last long. He gets knocked down a few pegs, like I said, he'll snap out of it. And if not, we'll deal."
Dark eyes found his. "You're taking this better than I thought."
"Any night I can spear Punk in half is a good one. And we'll beat Punk one of these days." He leaned down to pepper soft kisses on Seth's cheeks, just above the line of Seth's beard. "Looks like it's just gonna be me and you tonight. Sorry about that."
Seth waved him off. "Eh, not your fault if he can't take a joke, Rome. He needs to go cool off, anyway. We'll talk about all this shit tomorrow." The trouble left his face with his smile. "So. Just us, huh? Whatcha got in mind?"
"I'm sure I can think of something," Roman replied.
If Roman's smile was a little smug, well, who could blame him?
Spearing Punk and a rare night alone with Seth.
Didn't get much better than that.
xXx
"And your winners: Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns!"
"Goddamn right," Seth laughed, both arms in the air and one booted foot propped up on Eric Rowan's stomach.
Technically, Roman had scored the pin, but Seth swore to God he'd felt teeth come loose in Harper's jaw when his fist collided with it earlier.
And even if none had come loose then, they certainly had when Seth's heel smashed into them tonight.
And last night.
Two nights, two asshole stompings, and it felt great.
Every victory was a step further out of the shadows of what these two - and their sicko fucking leader - had done to him before. Each punch made it that much easier for him to look them right in the eye and smile.
On an even playing field, assholes, you can't touch me.
Flying around the ring these past two days unencumbered by Shield-related worries, he'd never felt more free.
The only sour spot was that it wasn't Bray Wyatt himself out here getting his ass kicked, but Seth decided waiting wasn't the worst thing in the world. Let Wyatt think he'd gotten away with what he'd done - both to Seth and to Dean - and then, when he wasn't expecting it, Seth would beat his ass in the ring, too, and show the whole world what a coward bitch Bray Wyatt really was.
Thinking he'd broken The Shield.
He hadn't.
He'd just managed to do the same damn thing William Regal did two years ago, and get inside Dean's head.
Seth hadn't seen Regal around, but he imagined that smug son-of-a-bitch was loving this.
Again.
But-
A tug on his wrist brought him back to the howling arena, and two concerned gray eyes. Roman, drenched with sweat and looking a little troubled, still had a hold of him. "You coming?" he asked over the din. "Match is over."
"Huh? Oh, yeah." Feeling a little stupid, Seth lowered his arm and turned to follow Roman out of the ring while the two Harper and Rowan dragged their sorry carcasses into their own corner.
He half-hoped they'd run into Wyatt on the way back to their locker room, but the halls were quiet and completely Wyatt-free. Creepy fucker was probably off building a shrine to John Cena or rocking in his chair or something.
Roman nudged his shoulder halfway back and said, "Looked like you were thinking pretty hard about something out there. Or - didn't get your bell rung, did you? Ran into that boot pretty hard."
"Nah, I'm fine," Seth replied as he stripped his gloves off. He smiled over a couple of the Divas who were off stretching for their match, and then hooked to his left, heading straight for the open door halfway down. "Kicked their asses again, didn't we? We're on a roll."
"Yeah, we are," Roman said, huffing a quiet laugh. He peeled a few strands of damp black hair off his cheek and finger-combed them back into the rest of his hair. "I could've kept going another ten minutes. I don't think I'll ever get tired of stomping their ugly faces into the canvas."
"No shit," Seth muttered. "I was actually just thinking it'd be nice if they'd let us have Wyatt one of these nights."
Roman shook his head and made his way over to the folding chair where he'd set all his bags. He pushed the big duffel bag onto the floor. "That ain't gonna happen," he said, reaching and extracting his phone. "Maybe we'll get lucky and Cena'll take care of him for us." He looked down at his phone and frowned.
Seth pushed his own bag off of his chair and began unbuckling his vest. "What?"
"Huh?" Roman grunted.
"Somebody text you?"
"It's nothing." Roman briefly tapped out something and then tossed his phone back into his bag. "What were you saying about Cena?"
"Oh, just I kinda hope he takes Wyatt out. What was the text?"
"Don't worry about it. I hope they take each other out. More space at the top for us." He unzipped his tactical vest. "So, you given any thought to what you wanna say tomorrow night?"
Seth opened his mouth to push about the text, but the forbidding look on Roman's face made him sigh quietly in defeat. Roman could be damn stubborn when he didn't want to talk about something - "I keep myself to myself," he'd said once - and Seth guessed if it was something Roman wanted him to know, he'd say so.
He finished stripping his shirt off and grabbed a towel to swipe sweat off his torso, instead mulling over Roman's actual question. Triple H had left it up to them how to address the Shield's split, provided they didn't say anything about Dean other than he was taking some time away to "get his head together."
"I've got a few ideas," he finally said. "I was thinking we could talk it out on the way to Nashville, but so you know where I'm at, I'm thinking - they'll show the video, so we don't need to rehash that. I was just gonna run with something like, 'We wish Dean the best, but that's the past and it's time for us to move on. The Shield is over, and Roman and I have our eyes on new prizes now.' Something like that. And whatever you want to add. And - what?"
Flinty gray eyes bored holes him: a couple of sharp spear-points digging in. Roman's hands had stilled in the act of pulling his own shirt off. "That's a cold way to put it," he said quietly. "'The Shield is over.'"
Bewildered, Seth let his towel fall onto his bag. "Wh-well, I mean, I don't have to say that," he said. "I just - I thought for it'd be best for everybody if we just-" he made a sharp chopping motion in the air "-cut it off clean. Made a clean break. For them, and for us. Look, we can talk about this in-"
"We can talk about it now," Roman cut him off. He rested both forearms on one thigh and leaned forward. "Call me old-fashioned or sentimental, but The Shield deserves a better send-off than 'it's over.'"
Seth frowned and moved around to sit down in his own chair. "Why don't you tell that to-"
"Hey." Roman shook his head, eyes suddenly shadowed under a frown of his own. "All I meant was I think you ought to talk about how damn great this team was. How it was something to be proud of. Don't just say 'it's over' like this didn't matter." He held up his fist. "It was something. All I'm saying is, don't just sweep it under the rug like that."
"Or," Seth said, a little impatiently, "you could say that. You should."
But Roman shook his head. "Words aren't my thing. Never were."
"They need to be," Seth pointed out. He bent down to dig his street clothes out of his bag. "I may not always be there to talk for you, you know."
That earned him an alarmed look, narrow and frowning. "What are you talking about?"
"We're going solo," Seth said, "and there'll be times when our paths won't cross at all. You'll be doing your thing and I'll be doing mine. Meaning you'll have to step up and start speaking for yourself. All the top guys not named Brock Lesnar do it, and trust me, Rome, you got 'top guy' written all over you. Just like I do. That's why I've been stepping up to say more."
"I talk better with this." Roman tightened his fist. "Always have."
"Yeah," Seth said, "but you gotta be able to use your words, too. You have to be able to tell people who you are and what you're about. Like I said, that's why I'm doing it more. The more you do it, the longer you talk, the more comfortable you'll get at it. So, yeah, just say whatever you wanna say about The Shield tomorrow. Give it whatever send-off you want to. That's cool with me." He got up, slipped into his tee shirt, and, deciding he'd had enough of not pushing said, "So come on - who're you texting?"
"Dean," Roman said gruffly, climbing to his feet himself.
"Oh," Seth muttered. Duh. As knotted up as Roman was, Seth guessed he should have known. "Well, I mean, I hate say I told you so but-" He nearly jumped when Roman's bag thumped hard onto the chair, a metallic bang ripping through the room like a gong.
"How about you don't?" Roman cut him off. "Can you do that, Seth? Just don't."
Bewildered, Seth took a step back. "Jesus, Rome, I was just-"
"Don't," Roman said again.
"Hey," Seth snapped, setting his feet, "don't get all pissed off at me just because Dean's being a dick to you. I told you there's no point trying to talk to him right now. I've been here before. I know how this works because I know - better than fucking anybody - how he gets. I don't even know why the you're so stuck on this anyway. Jesus, as hard as you were pushing me to drop him the last few weeks, I'd have thought you'd be happy he wasn't here getting in the way. You got what you wanted. Me. A chance to move on without him costing us matches. A title shot on the biggest stage of them all. No more goddamn Wyatts in our faces. So where the hell is this coming from?"
Tense silence filled every ounce of space in the room to the point it felt like the pressure might just blow open the door and make the window explode outward.
Seth stood there with his arms folded across his chest, fuming, silently marveling how - yet again - Dean goddamn Ambrose was causing more problems - without even being in the fucking room.
Roman, meanwhile, stood across the room with his jaw muscles bunching like he was chewing nails or glass or something. His nostrils were even flaring, a sure sign as any he was pissed to the point he wanted to spear something.
Finally, just when it seemed like the pressure couldn't ratchet up any more, Roman said, "Three of us came up like brothers. We were brothers before anything else. You know what I did to my brother? I went out of my way to make him look like an asshole and myself a good guy. Yeah, he did a good job making himself look like an asshole. I know. I'm not saying I'm completely responsible, but I'm saying I'd push his buttons to set him off and make him leave so I could have you to myself. I'm saying I'd yell at him and laugh at him instead of trying to go talk shit out with him and help him get his head right-"
Seth held up a hand. "We tried-"
"Not we, Seth," Roman said over him. "Me. Just me. Because that was always the problem. Between me and him. I never tried to hash it out between us, and neither did he. Now here we are, and I don't like it. That's where it's coming from. You're probably gonna say 'too little too late, it's over.' and you're probably right. It probably is. He chose what he chose. Maybe he doesn't want to fix things. Maybe I am just wasting my time. But I am where I am because of both of you. My brothers. I wouldn't be here without you guys. So I gotta try. If I don't get anywhere, that's my problem.
"What I don't get," he went on, "is how you could go from 'let's fix this' to 'it's over' in a day. You were the one all along push us to fix this shit. I'm trying. Now you're telling me to quit. Now you're saying 'it's over and let's move on.' I don't get that. You were so gung-ho to make this right, to defend him, to take out the Wyatts for what they did to all of us, and now it's like - eh. Done. Over. Move on. How does that work?"
Sighing, Seth scrubbed both hands over his cheeks. The soft hiss of the beard against his palms was comforting, soothing. "Every time I'm in the ring with Harper and Rowan, I put boots to their faces for what they did to me. Seeing their faces ground down in the canvas makes up for a hell of a lot. I'm sleeping just fine. Triple H said it's over with Wyatt right now, so it's over. There's nothing we can do to fix the Shield. I've told you again and again, I know Dean than anybody, and I know how he gets when he's fucked up over something.
"I have been working for years to get here, Rome. But my goal was always to climb to the top of the ladder on my own. It was never my goal to do it as part of a team. It happened, though. That did happen, and it's fucking amazing. But now I got the chance grab that brass ring, so why the hell shouldn't I? I've been trying to fix shit and take care of things and strategize for this team for a year and a half, and now I'm ready to move on. Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't you? There's nothing left to do about the Shield right now. It's done. It sucks, but it's done. So what's the point in hanging on to something we can't fix?
"And so you know, Dean's not really a family-type guy. All that stuff about brothers and having each other's backs, that's all well and good, but he doesn't believe in that stuff. This was a foot in the door for him the same way it was for me." That sounded cold, but God, he was so tired of his life revolving around that guy. So tired of investing all his energy and patience into a self-absorbed prick who chose to walk away. "So like I said the other day, if you want to keep ramming your head into that wall, go ahead, but don't complain when you get a concussion."
"I didn't," Roman said calmly. He'd swapped his sweaty black undershirt for a heavy sweater and his cargo pants for the baggy jeans he'd had on earlier. Now he bent to tie his shoes. "You're the one who kept pushing me just now. You brought it up. Don't lecture me when you're the one who started the damn conversation."
"Oh." Seth grimaced. He felt like slapping his forehead. He'd had to push, hadn't he? "Shit, yeah, okay. Sorry. I did, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Roman said curtly. He tugged his jeans's cuffs down over the tops of his shoes, rose, and reached for his jacket. "So it was a foot in the door do you, then?" He nodded at the Hounds patch on Seth's vest. "Everything you said in the ring about us being a team and better together than we are separate, was that just lip service?"
"Jesus Christ, Roman!" Seth snapped. "I wanted to fix it, okay? It wasn't lip-service. I really thought there was something to fix, and yeah, I wanted to fix it. I tried. I couldn't. That's life. Shit breaks. People go away. And when you're the one left behind, you can either be miserable or you can get on with your life." He pulled in a deep breath. Made himself loosen his grip on his jeans, which he'd been unconsciously clenching in a fist. "I want to get on with my life, Rome. In the ring, and with you. Am I happy about how this shook out with Dean? No. Do I hope he'll get his shit together? Of course I do. Am I gonna put my life on hold until he does? No. He walked. Again." He left me. Again. "He made his choice. That's not my problem. And feel bad about it all you want, but it's not your problem, either."
He meant that.
Roman drew a breath like he was going to say something, but wound up letting it out quietly and muttering, "Okay."
Seth stared him down. "Is it?"
Are we?
A hitch of a shrug, and, "I guess it has to be, doesn't it?" He sounded tired suddenly, and looked it, as he slipped his coat on and picked up his bag. "I'm gonna go start the car."
"Hey." The hand not wadding up his jeans reached out to settle on Roman's bicep. "No matter what, I'm glad it worked out this way. Us. I love you like crazy, Rome. You've been - shit, I'd have gone nuts months ago without you."
Something flickered through Roman's expression, but it was gone before Seth had time to really wonder about it. The big man offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and patted Seth's hand before shooing it away. "Yeah," he said on his way to the door. "Love you, too. Now hurry up. We got a long drive tonight."
All Seth could do for a long moment was stand there staring at the empty doorway, feeling like he'd just missed something.
xXx
December 27, 2013
Another house show, another Shield loss.
They'd had a fantastic Christmas together, all three of them managing to put all the bullshit aside and fall into the spirit of the season. Dean had been in good spirits (and had given Roman a surprisingly awesome gift of some Shield memorabilia he'd been collecting since the team had come together), and Seth had been more relaxed than Roman had seen him in weeks (sneaking as many quick kisses as he could with both Roman and Dean under the mistletoe), and he himself had been pretty damn happy with his boys and his family all around him.
Two damn days later, and shit was already falling apart again.
Three-on-one again and they couldn't buy a win against CM Punk.
It was Dean who got pinned after he lost his shit when Punk started taunting him about the weak link shit again.
Post-match now, with Dean flipping out crazy on the way back to the locker room, a tired Seth and a frustrated Roman trailing behind him.
In an empty section of the hallway, Dean went to upend a crate stack, but Seth shot out a hand and clamped down on his shoulder. Roman moved to catch the crates before they fell.
"Hey!" Seth said. "Stop that. Jesus Christ. It's fine."
"It's not fucking fine," Dean snapped, a sullen foot snapping out to kick at the crate anyway. "I fucking hate that guy!"
"We know!" Seth said. "Dean, seriously, chill out."
"All right, all right, all right," Dean muttered, scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair. "Fine. Sorry. Shit. Shit." He flicked a look Seth's way. "We lost. Sorry. That fucker. Fucking Best in the World my ass."
As Roman leaned against the equipment crates to watch, Seth tapped two fingers to Dean's forehead. "Hey. You. Have got. To stay focused. This is getting ridiculous, Dean. You keep letting shit distract you and it's making us look bad. Pull yourself together, man. Who gives a fuck about what Punk says? Roman and I know - we know - there's no weak link on this team, Dean. We know. You're just having a rough patch. It happens. We just - you gotta get it together, is all I'm saying. Stop worrying what people are saying. Listen to us." He wrapped a hand around the back of Dean's neck and used it to bring their foreheads together. "Listen to me. Okay? You never used to give a shit what people said. Remember that? Back in Florida - you blew in there like a tornado, and you didn't give a shit about anything. That's the guy we need."
"We're a long way from Florida," was Dean's barely-audible reply.
"I know," Seth said, "but you remember that guy, right?"
"...yeah." Something almost hoarse in Dean's voice.
They might as well have been off in their own little world for all that they noticed Roman standing there.
"Fuck what everybody's saying," Seth said fiercely. "Fuck everybody, Dean. When you're on, you're fucking amazing. I know that. Roman knows that. We don't think you're a weak link. You gotta believe that, man. We wouldn't have you here if we thought that. So just - calm down, okay? Take a breath. We'll be okay. We'll bounce back." He pulled back, both hands cupping Dean's cheeks. "Look at me," he instructed. "We're going to be fine."
There was something weirdly soft in Dean's expression as he gazed at Seth. He was calmer than Roman had seen him in weeks, and his eyes were bright as he moved in for a kiss that clearly caught Seth off-guard, but that Seth clearly didn't mind. Seth all but melted as Dean wrapped him up and pulled him in, and if either one of them gave a damn they were kissing in an arena hallway where anybody who wanted to could walk by and see them, it didn't show.
For some reason, seeing it, hearing the quiet noise Seth made, made Roman's stomach knot up.
What am I, chopped liver?
"Someone's coming," he said gruffly, abruptly, as he saw the Bella twins around a corner and head their way.
Dean and Seth separated, but not before Dean leaned in to say something into Seth's ear. Afterward, Dean gave Seth kind of a hopeful puppy-dog look and Roman couldn't help shaking his head at the fact this was the same guy who, not five minutes ago, was ready to murder somebody.
A guy could get whiplash trying to keep up with Ambrose's mood swings.
Meanwhile, Seth just rolled his eyes and glanced over at Roman. "Hey, uh, would it - uh. Would you mind if Dean and I kind of had an 'us' night tonight?"
Roman waved as the Bellas made their way past. Once they were out of earshot, he folded his arms over his chest and said, gruffly, "I thought 'us' was all three of us - not just two."
"It's been you two a lot of nights lately," Dean said. His teeth clicked together around a fingernail. "'Sides, what's one night on your own? Catch up on your sleep or something."
"What's the big deal about me being there?" Roman countered. He couldn't see that there was one. "I'm part of this, too, aren't I? If there's something you need, something I can take care of for you, maybe I can help, too. You ever stop and think about that?"
He meant that offer sincerely, but the stony look it earned him made him wish he'd just kept his damn mouth shut.
"You ever stop and think about I don't need you to take care me or anything for me, Rome?" Dean said, and Roman swore to God he heard ice snapping between the words. "You keep saying shit like that like you haven't heard me tell you a thousand times I don't fucking need big, strong Roman to fucking take care of me. I'm not a goddamn kid. Stop fucking treating me like one."
"Then stop acting like one," Seth said sharply. Roman bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "Jesus, he prolly just meant if you needed somebody to rant at or talk shit through, he'd be there."
"Yeah," Roman nodded. "That's all I was saying, man."
"Whatever," Dean said, pushing away from the wall. "I'm gonna grab a cab and go get a drink. See you guys later."
"Hey, no," Seth said, clamping down on his shoulder again. "Come on. You and I can still-"
"Oh, no," Dean cut him off, eyes flicking over to Roman. "Wouldn't wanna upset the fucking applecart.." With that, he pulled himself away and headed off not toward the locker room, but down the other end of the hallway toward the exit door.
Seth raked a gloved hand over his face. "Roman, would really have been a big deal to let me have a night alone with him?"
"Excuse me for thinking we were in this together," Roman muttered. "Excuse me for wanting to help."
"Some things you can't help, Rome," Seth said. "Especially him. It's better just to step back and leave him be. Or, better yet, you know, we don't always have to be three. In fact, I'd really like it if you'd take him somewhere yourself and you two got your shit out of your systems. Whatever this bullshit is between you, you need to work it out. You two. On your own. Without me. And then you step back and let me and him work out our shit. That's how we keep this thing together." Dark eyes harpooned him. "Okay?"
"I'll think about it," Roman said, moving away from the crate stack. Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe Seth had a point: giving those two a night to themselves probably wouldn't have been a big deal, but - the thought of it just made his damn stomach knot.
"Fine," Seth sighed. "Let's just fucking go."
It was the first time Roman could remember them going to bed angry.
Figured the guy that caused it all wasn't there.
xXx
Dean saw the little girl - Abigail - again two days later.
That was day six, according to the tally marks on his floor. Six days of lying on a filthy mattress in a dim, stinking shack with his stomach nearly always rumbling with hunger - they fed him once a day, and what they fed him was about what he usually ate for breakfast - and his head buzzing with whatever the fuck they'd been slipping into the water. Six days of nobody but himself for company, no way to escape, and nobody but himself to blame for this fucking predicament.
Six days wrapped in paranoia, wondering when the fuck Wyatt would come back.
What he'd do when he did.
Day six when he saw the girl, he ignored her completely. She approached the bed and tried to talk to him, but he kept his eyes shut - he had a headache anyway - and pretended like he didn't hear her babbling on again about doggies and rabbits and Bray.
(Oh my.)
She pouted and he swore to God he heard her stomp her little foot, but he ignored her, and eventually she left.
Three more days dragged by.
Each day, he made himself do a little exercise - pull-ups on the bar his chain was connected to, pushups, squats, and sit ups on the floor - but he could feel the lack of food seriously starting to take a toll on his strength.
Felt like he got burned out after doing half of what he'd normally do.
Fuck.
So maybe that was the plan? Get him too physically weak to fight back and get him crawling out of his own skin with a need for someone to talk to that he'd listen to Wyatt's babbling?
Fuck that.
The worst part was, he had nobody to blame for this but himself.
Each day that passed made his hope anybody had noticed he was missing dwindle that much more, which - he'd known going into this he'd have to fight his own battle here, and he'd wanted to, but the fact he could just...die uselessly in the middle of some fucking shack and no one would find him was just fucking galling.
No chance to apologize to Seth and Roman for turning into such a prick last year.
No chance to explain things to Regal and see if there was a chance they could pick back up with that...seriously confusing shit they were doing.
(Even now, almost two weeks later, the memory of the god-awful so-called lapdance Regal had given him while he'd been tied to the bed could still tug a smile out of him. The one thing he could say was that he guessed even if he did die out here, at least it would be knowing he did manage to get what he wanted - and more - out of the guy.)
No chance to to become WWE champion.
He was in the middle of a listless wallow when he glanced to his right and saw a pale, tiny little face peering at him from just about a foot away. It made him shoot up, heart thundering, gasping. "Jesus Christ," he said. "What are you doing?"
Abigail, same little girl in the same white dress, smiled her too-bright, gap-toothed grin at him. "Seein' if you were awake, doggy-doggy."
"Well, if I wasn't, I am now," he muttered. One shaky hand trawled down his face, and he grimaced at the thick curl of beard growth against his hand. I probably look like family to her now, he thought sourly, glaring at her spooky-pale face. "What?"
Telling himself all the while he couldn't see through her.
Which he totally could.
"Were those mean doggies really your brothers?" she asked him, arranging herself cross-legged on the ground beside his mattress. She didn't make any impression on the ground - none whatsoever.
Dean laid back down, tugging the corner of his blanket-scrap free of the chain and arranging it so it covered him chest-to-knee.
Hallucination or not, it made him feel skeevy as fuck not having much to cover himself with when she was around.
Finally, remembering she'd asked him something, he an arm under his head, looked at her through half-lidded eyes, and said, "What did you say?"
Because why not talk to this little figment of his imagination.
After nine days of being on his own, it beat the hell out of not talking to anyone at all.
Surprised his voice even worked, as little as he'd used it.
The little girl inclined her head in a way that reminded him irresistibly of Wyatt. "The doggies," she said. "The one with the drawings on his arms. The one with the funny hair. Were they really your brothers?"
Dean grunted. "Roman," he said, "and Seth. I - yeah, kinda. I mean, no. Not like… Are you…? Are you really Wyatt's sister?"
"Mm-hmm," she said. "Brother Bray 'n Sister Abigail. Our daddy usedta call us that. Are they your brothers like that?"
"No," he said. "No, they're not like Bray is to you."
"Brothers like Luke 'n Erick are to Bray?"
"Y - they were." I guess.
"They were mean to you," she said then. Her tiny fingers seemed to be skimming the dirt, but not a grain of sand moved. "My daddy said sometimes people are mean 'cuz other people are mean to them. Those doggies were mean to you. They didn't want you with them, so they chased you away. That was mean. Is that why you're mean?"
"I'm not mean," Dean said waspishly. "I just don't want to be here. And you're not real."
"Am too am too am too," she insisted in that silly, stubborn way on a little kid could manage. If she'd been standing, he didn't doubt she'd have stamped her foot. "I like dollies and doggies and rabbits and playin' outside and singing and I'm real. And you are too mean. 'Cuz people were mean to you."
Suddenly wishing for a beer and a pack of smokes, Dean sighed. "I was mean to them, too. I was mean to them before they were mean to me. Sometimes they didn't deserve it."
"Like the snake-man?" she asked.
Stupidly, Dean blinked at her. "The snake-man."
"Bray says he's a bad man. He is a bad man, but he was nice to you."
"The - wh…?" Snake-man? "I'm not sure who you're talking about."
"You shouted at him," she said, pale forehead somehow wrinkling. "The night the doggy with the funny hair ran away. The snake-man was nice to you, but you shouted at him. You were scared Bray would hurt him, too. Like the doggies. Even though they were mean to you, you don't want him to hurt them."
"W -uh..." It was on Dean's tongue to ask her how the fuck she knew that, but figment of my fucking imagination.
Of course she would know.
"Yeah," he said, resigned. "So?"
"You told Bray you were going to hurt them."
"Yeah," Dean said again. "So?"
She peered at him intently, a tiny, barely-visible pale slip of a dark-haired girl in all white. "You lied."
"Yeah," he said for a third time. "So?"
Even if the shack was bugged (which he doubted, given he got the impression Wyatt was an even bigger technophobe than Dean himself) or if anyone was listening in, no way they'd know what he was in here talking about.
Fucking Wyatt would never know.
Abigail smiled again. Gently this time. Somehow less creepy.
"Good doggy," she said. "Good doggy."
Okaaaay.
Deciding he might as well play along, Dean said, "I thought I was a rabbit."
She giggled. "I lied too, doggy-doggy. I told Bray you were my bunny rabbit. He was 'posed ta find me a new rabbit. A new Georgie. But he pushed me. He thinks Daddy did it, but he don't 'member right."
"What?" Dean blurted.
"I told him to find me a new Georgie," she said, climbing to her feet. "But I really wanted a doggy. I lied too."
She held out her hand, which suddenly looked solid and fleshy.
Dean, feeling like he'd been hit over the head with a club full of crazy, gawked at her. "I don't understand."
"Here," she said, waggling her little fingers. "Come on, doggy."
"I - I can't," Dean said, nonplussed. "You're not…"
She bent down and touched his arm. Her hand was soft and warm and solid, and Dean nearly stopped breathing as he mentally scrambled away from her because what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?
No, no, no. No. Not real.
Her tiny fingers closed around three of his, firm and surprisingly strong. Her little face was pink-cheeked and her smile was bright, friendly. "I'm real, doggy. Come on. I wanna show you something. Outside."
"I - the…" What? "I - I can't," he stammered. He pointed up at the creaky shack's cracked ceiling. "The - chain. I'm - I can't."
"What chain?" she asked, and when he looked down at himself, not only was he not chained to the fucking ceiling, he was now somehow dressed in jeans, his boots, a black tee shirt, and a leather jacket.
Dreaming, he thought, brushing his hand over the fabric. It felt as real as the blanket did.
No. Gotta be dreaming.
The dark-haired little girl reached down to tug on his hand again. Real. Solid. "Come on, doggy."
He finally tossed the blanket off and stood up.
Go, he thought. Fucking run. Get away.
But as if divining that thought, Abigail looked up at him - she was barely as tall as his bellybutton - and said, "You can't leave me here alone, doggy. Doggies eat rabbits."
Dean blinked down at her. "What?"
"I got a doggy," she said, leading him to the door. This time her bare feet left tracks in the dirt, right beside Dean's boot-prints. "'Cuz doggies eat rabbits. But you can't eat my rabbit yet. I need to show you first. I told Bray I wanted a rabbit, but I really wanted a doggy. I lied. I already got a rabbit.
"Bray is my rabbit," she said solemnly. "Long time ago, he let his doggy eat my Georgie rabbit. He pushed me into the dark. He hurt people. I've been tryin' to find a good doggy for a long time, but I ain't found one yet. 'Til now.
"Doggies eat rabbits.
"But you can't tell. 'Cuz he don't know.
"Now come on, doggy." She pushed open the shack's rickety door on a day that was all bright sunshine and summer sky and the air redolent with mud and plants. "Let's go vencherin'."
And Dean Ambrose had no choice but to follow.
xXx
A/N: Sooooooo. That was weird. Chapter six, though. All I'm sayin. Thanks for reading.