!TRIGGER WARNING!: Contains brief sexual abuse and allusions to coercion/blackmail for sexual favors. This is blatant, gratuitous hurt/comfort. Enjoy!

The nightmares come after hard days. Exhaustion sets into his bones, any flat surface looks like a bed to him and as soon as Dean lays down, he's out like a light.

It creeps in. Not that his dreams are that good to begin with. If he even dreams at all, it's mundane shit like having a family or matches that go without a hitch. It oozes into the cozy living room of his mind, the wrestling ring surrounded the swirling masses of an ever-changing Universe.

Paint starts to peel. The voices down the hallway get louder and louder, the lights above him fade to sickly florescent. His chest tightens and then everything explodes outwards as the door at the end of the hall bursts open.

The staples slam into his skull in an ugly row and Dean is screaming in pain and flailing against the faceless doctor or the medic with the fucking dead eyes. The door cracks against his head over and over, the maniac laughter of whatever boyfriend Mom had kept around this time ringing in his ears.

In the nightmare he's never big enough, tough enough to take the beating or patch-up they dish out. Relentless fists landing again and again, that steel-toed boot crashes into his stomach and he finally startles awake in the phantom-pain haze that's all too familiar.

Daylight is always so far away when Dean wakes up shaking and sweaty with his throat raw.

It only became a real problem after he and Roman began rooming together because apartments are fucking expensive when you're on your own. Roman was nice, too nice. Damn near flawless, smart, funny.

And Dean was finding it more and more difficult to keep up a decent sleep pattern, or even the facade of one. Every day was a hard day in developmental. Everyone asking everything you could give and more. And yeah sure, he'd been in death matches before so he wasn't exactly expecting a cakewalk. But no one in a death match would have been disappointed if he had a sloppy pin. Getting hurt went hand in hand with his work, his style. Here was different. Shit, when he'd gone shirtless in the practice ring against Roman one of his first days there, he'd startled a surprised shriek out of Rollins.

"What the fuck Ambrose, your back looks like hamburg!" the two-toned man had pointed out (literally, he jabbed at Dean with his finger damn near hard enough to poke a hole through the fabric of reality).

Roman had huffed at the younger man. "Easy man, take that shrill shit down about a thousand notches." His look had been wary when he focused on Dean, who had flushed uncomfortably and started struggling back into his shirt. "You're just gonna' sweat through it man, leave it off." Roman squared up. "We need to practice if this is going to happen."

Roman made himself easy to be around as part of a sinister plot to get Dean to fall for him, Dean was sure of it. Always sparring with him, always ready with a comment to take the heat off Dean when someone mentioned how exhausted he was or how hard he was sweating.

Reigns didn't know about the nightmares. He didn't need to know. He could think insomnia or sleep paralysis or whatever the hell he needed to think. Dean didn't need Roman to know about the never-ending shitshow of misaligned metal in his scalp, didn't want him to think any fucking less of him (if that was even possible).

...

But the best laid plans of one guy from Ohio go oft a-fucking-wry, and Dean is shaken awake one night with the screams still in his throat and his heart pounding frantically in his chest and he knows, he knows he shouldn't but he just swings with all his might and…

And.

Roman goes down hard, devastatingly hard. Because Reigns isn't expecting to be attacked like Dean constantly is, isn't ready to dodge the blows before they're thought of or latch his teeth onto someone's hand to keep their fingers from curling into a fist.

Roman's never had to fight like Dean's had to fight.

Reigns grunts, rubbing the back of his head from where it had knocked against the wall. "Jesus man. You pack a fuckin' wallop." His voice is still deep with sleep and he sounds more than a little out of it. But he's not hitting Dean back.

Ambrose feels like his stomach has dropped out of his body, he feels like he's going to puke or cry and he can't. Not in front of Roman. "Roman I–"

"It's alright man. You were just kinda' loud." Roman is flat-out unsteady when he stands, a hand still pressed to the back of his head.

Dean's skin crawls in guilt and fear; what the fuck has he done. Roman puts his other hand down on the bed momentarily, breathing out quick and hard. "Damn."

"Roman-"

"Just. Gimme' a sec." Roman manages, looking significantly worse for the wear. "Head ain't doing so good."

"Roman for fuck's sake." Dean yanks the sheet and blankets out of the way, off the side of the bed. "Sit the fuck down before you toss everywhere."

Roman sits quickly, grimacing and rubbing his temples. He doesn't seem phased by the blow to the chest that was hard enough to knock him on his ass, but the wall clearly did a number on him. "Dean, are you alright?"

Ambrose wants to hit him again. "Reigns. Are you for fuckin' real right now."

"You've been having sleeping issues, man. I'm not blind. And this." Roman taps his chest with a wince.

Ouch. Okay, he's just good at acting like shit didn't hurt. Dean ignores the implications of that for a minute, chewing the current situation over in his mind. The last thing Reigns needed was another thing from him to pay attention to. "Just uh. It's not a big deal, Roman. Don't worry about it, okay?"

The look Roman gave him made Dean well aware that he wasn't buying whatever bullshit Dean was selling, but Reigns got to his feet after a moment. "Okay Uce."

Uce? Dean latches onto the unfamiliar word, his brain mentally curling around it.

"If you think you're okay, I'm gonna' get back to bed. Sleep good, alright?" Roman rests a hand heavily on Dean's shoulder for a second. Dean wants to cry again, swallowing the lump in his throat to choke out a yeah, you too man.

He's startled when Roman presses his lips to the top of his head absently, like he's a little kid or something. Oh god, he's going to cry, he's going to cry in front of his roommate. Dean manages somehow, through willpower or some smaller, grungier emotion that suits him better, to not burst into tears.

Before Roman is safely down the hall where he can't hear him sob.

Affection was…strange for Dean. He'd received so little of it growing up that a lot of times the displays people made...caught him off guard, left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Regal knew, Dean was sure of it. Knew how Dean's stomach twisted with a strange mix of hate and want when he saw two people hug without flinching.

"It's alright, you know." Regal had commented once, standing beside Dean while he was watching Roman and Seth grapple. "The way you get. It's to be expected."

It sounded so grim when he said it like that. Expected. Like Dean was always going to be fucked up over it. Like he didn't have a choice. In a way…he kind of didn't. But in a way Dean wanted to slam his fists into a wall until they broke, the wall broke, everything broke. Because he hated feeling helpless, hated feeling that there was nothing he could do about this.

Roman is back in his doorway for whatever reason, and Dean is horrified when he realizes that Roman is staring, he's gawking and oh god there's tears all down Ambrose's cheeks and neck and he's still sniffling and oh fuck–

Reigns moves surprisingly quick for someone built like a tank. Huge arms wrap around Dean and his nose is half-crushed against Roman's chest, the larger man all but hauling Dean into his lap. "I've got you Uce. It's alright." A hand strokes the back of Dean's hair, stirring…something in him. A memory, maybe.

Dean's face crumples and he tucks it in deeper, tears staining Roman's shirt. The apologies are coming from him whether he wants them to or not and he feels Reigns shake his head. "You're doing nothin' wrong Uce. It's okay. You're okay."

Dean barely bites back a hysterical laugh at that statement, because really he's the furthest fucking thing from okay right now. He's exhausted and his achy body is taking interest because someone is showing him affection and it's so, so fucking embarrassing. Enough that he pulls away from Roman, rubbing at his eyes.

Reigns looks worn-out himself, picking a hair tie up off the bed by Dean's knee. "Forgot this." he said by way of explanation. "Dean, I–"

"Sorry. Kind of a breakdown. I'm okay now." Dean was too cheery, he knew he was. But he couldn't have Roman thinking that he needed him like this. He was relieved when Reigns stood again, the tattooed man rumpling his hair.

"Gave me a scare, man. I know, sometimes they suck." Roman's eyes look unfocused for a second but then he's back. "You're a tough bastard, Dean. You don't have to do it alone okay?"

Dean knows he shouldn't laugh but it comes out anyway. An ugly, jagged noise. Roman's eyes narrow. "How long has this been going on, Ambrose?"

Ambrose. Ow. He's been taken down to last name status. Barely an acquaintance. Dean waves off the question, breaking eye contact. "I'm okay, man."

"That fucking sound you just made isn't anything 'okay' people make. How long?"

"Months, shit, I don't fucking know." Dean flounders, taken aback by the concern in Roman's voice. "It's not a big deal, dude."

"Dean."

"A while, okay?! It's been a while. It's. Regularly. At least once I settled into a schedule." Dean wants to keep brushing him off, wants to stop talking. But he's just so damn tired. "I get wiped, man. So fucking exhausted. And I can't fight them anymore." he says finally.

"So don't."

Dean counts himself lucky that he doesn't have the energy to roll his eyes. "Shit, if only I'd thought of that!" he snaps, sarcasm so thick he's surprised he can't collect it out of the air between them.

Roman holds out a placating hand, seeming to understand he should have phrased that better. "Let me help, Dean,"

His words have Dean reeling, the hostile Mox response fighting free before he can stop it. "What th' fuck're you gonna' do 'bout this shit?"

"Try to fix it."

Reigns is a straightforward kind of guy, Dean knows that. He's seen a lot of problems that could be solved by going around them instead be slammed into headlong by well over two hundred pounds of godlike stubbornness. Some days he admires Roman's tenacity. Other days it's a pain in the fucking ass.

"And how the hell do you plan to do that?" Dean asks warily. Roman looks fucking soft, all sleepy still and hair messy and…

Oh no.

Oh no.

"Whoa hey man, what are you doing?" Dean panics when Reigns sits down and wraps his arms around him again. Roman hushes him, that hand back at stroking his hair. Not entirely against his will, Dean goes limp.

"Let me fight 'em off for a little while, Uce. Rest easy." Roman murmurs.

"What the fuck." Dean grunts into Roman's chest, careful to keep his voice down lest he piss him off.

And maybe he dozes off too easy. It's entirely possible. And maybe Reigns is comfortable to hug, warm and fucking radiating care and worry and it's not fair, not fair that he's so kind. Dean decides, right there, drifting between awake and asleep that…that Reigns needs protection.

He's too good, too good to be busting up his body in shit like football and wrestling for whatever reasons. "I'm going to make my family proud", Roman had said way more than once with a stern look on his face. What fucking family wouldn't be proud of the fact that one of their sons had a heart of fucking gold, one that hadn't been fucking ruined by whatever was thrown at him yet.

You've fucked me up, big guy. More than I already was, I guess.

Thanks.

…

He should have known that people like Reigns tend to attract dicks. Both literal and figurative, in this instance. Rollins always had to be in control, and Roman wasn't big on saying no if he thought he was helping.

But the bruises on Reigns' neck were real fucking obvious today.

Dean grinds his teeth at the thought of what Rollins had done now, feeling damn useless as he and Roman warm up. The other man is wincing too often, too often, and it's setting off warning bells in Dean's head.

"He forget to stretch you or somethin', Reigns?" he grunts, keeping his voice low. Roman's head jerks up and he looks at Ambrose all wide-eyed; something in Dean's chest twists violently. "You know you owe him nothin', right? He ain't payin' your fuckin' way, man. You are."

Roman snaps his eyes back down to his hands. "Don't worry about me, Dean. I can take care of myself." His grin does nothing to calm Dean's worries when it's framed by those god awful finger marks on his neck.

Not that Dean hasn't left (and received) his fair share of hickeys, but these are full-blown bruises, and thinking about Rollins touching Reigns like that makes his stomach queasy. Maybe he's jealous. Oh he's definitely jealous, but it's more than that. No one should touch Roman with intent like that. Outside the ring, anyhow.

Creative wanted them as a team, and Dean is willing to bet that Rollins was touting whatever the fuck he's doing to Roman as team building or some shit. Reigns would go for that. Reigns just wanted to succeed. He'd always say "by any means necessary" but Dean knew better. Roman is a goddamn sap. He would have gotten eaten alive in CZW.

Not that a slow death by Rollins was any kinder.

More than anything Dean wants thirty minutes in one of his old rings with nothing but Seth and his favorite toys. He can practically hear Moxley voicing his disapproval of the situation, "you gonna' let 'im treat ya boyfriend like that, pissy bitch?"

Maybe it wasn't Moxley. But he wasn't him anymore, now was he.

Dean understands he shouldn't do anything in the practice area. The smirk Rollins sends him is bait, it's fucking bait and he knows it. Rollins has to realize he isn't stupid, despite his…quirks. Rollins cannot be this fucking dumb, this fucking oblivious.

I know you're hurting him! Dean bites the words back; ducks his head to focus on taping up his hands.

…

It all boils over when Ambrose walks in on them in the locker room. Late-night training had helped Dean immensely as far as sleeping went, and he'd seen less and less of Roman over the weeks. The worry ate at him like a fucking rat, though, as well as the futility of his promise. If he never saw Reigns aside from practice, how the fuck was he supposed to protect him?

Why does he come home so late? Why not just stay over if they're fucking? What the fuck is Seth doing to him?

Dean's just shucking his sweaty shirt over his head when he notices a phone he recognizes, sitting on the bench opposite him with a towel and bag he also recognizes. He grins to himself, taking Seth's fancy, sleek phone and tucking it into his pocket. Score, you douchebag. Good luck without–

He hears a weird noise, almost like a sob. Crying is never a good sound to hear in a locker room, and this late at night…?

The noise comes again and something in Dean's brain clicks and he's flushing, furious red. Because that isn't a sob. And he's willing to bet he knows exactly who just made that noise.

"Shhh, you gotta' be quiet Romie. Don't want your dad to see those pictures, right?"

That weasel.

"Look at how good you take this cock down that throat, huh? Don't–" the word is punctuated with the sound of a slap. "–act like you didn't ask for this, Reigns."

Moxley is whipping around the corner of the lockers before he even registers his body is moving, slamming open the first closed shower stall door he sees. The scene is bad, it's real fucking bad, and Mox snaps his teeth.

Seth's got that filthy, disgusting cock of his in Roman's mouth with his hands wrapped tight around Roman's throat. White fingers squeeze violently against that tanned throat over the old bruises and Dean's screaming in outrage in the back of Mox's head and the noises from Reigns are not something he ever wants to hear again. Seth doesn't even stop, hardly pauses in his tempo. Just turns and shoots Mox a wink.

A fucking wink.

Moxley slides his tongue across his teeth, finding more than he remembers having and slowly debating his options. He deliberately ignores Reigns, doesn't want to make eye contact to bring Dean back to the surface. This shit is bad enough without all the bleeding heart crap.

"What th' fuck," Mox drawls, leaning against the wall and propping his foot up. "d'you think you're fuckin' doin', 'zactly?" He holds up a hand to stop whatever Seth is going to say, "Shut th' fuck up. Don't actually wan' an answer." His brow furrows, ease abruptly gone from his body with Dean's caterwauling about Roman getting louder and louder. His hand lashes out and grabs Seth's wrist, tight enough that he feels the bones in it slide and grind together.

Seth's yelp of pain and fear is music to his ears. Dean calms somewhat.

"Pretty boy, y' got 'bout two minutes b'fore I get let offa' the leash n' fuck ya up. Got it? So how 'bout you get that piss-poor excuse f'r a dick outta' m' boy's mouth. Oth'wise, m' gonna' do som'thin' that you're gonna' regret." Moxley doesn't remember his voice being quite so smooth. Dean must have abandoned the cigarettes. Fucking wellness policies and shit.

"Alright man, alright. Take it easy, okay?" Rollins whimpers, the typical bully once he's called on it. Mox grunts, still refusing to look at Reigns. He'll let Dean back out once Seth's gone packing.

"You'd be'er fig're outta' way t' put your clothes on one-handed, kid. You're down t' thirty seconds." Moxley leans in close, real close like he used to do, and shows his teeth. "An' I expect ya t' never touch him again."

"Oh God, oh God please let me go, I promise, I promise I won't–" Seth pleads, tugging at his wrist in Moxley-Dean's iron grip.

Mox releases him after a tense second, jerking his chin. "Ten seconds. Get th' fuck outta' m' sight, y' fuckin' waste."

Dean claws free once Rollins has bolted (damn near cracking his two-toned skull open on the floor when he slips and stumbles in his haste to escape) and kneels beside a shaking Reigns. "Ro, buddy, please…gotta' talk to me man." Moxley's voice is still rough in his throat when he pleads and Dean swallows back furious tears when Roman shakes his head, arms wrapped around himself.

"Ro I'm so sorry. M' so fuckin' sorry, please–" Dean's cut short by a sobbing cough from Reigns.

"Shouldn't be so fucking d-dumb." Roman's face is a damn mess, red on one side from that slap, eyes all teary and hair yanked out of his elastic wrong wrong wrong and it shouldn't bother Dean, this shouldn't be what he focuses on because it's not fucking important right now. "I'm so fucking dumb, A-Ambrose. Don't…please don't." He flinches away when Dean reaches for him, and it hurts because Dean knows, he knows this feeling. Like it's burrowed under your skin and you'll never get it off and everyone can see.

"Reigns…" Dean drops his arms, rests his fingertips on Roman's knees and just…sits while he cries. "I'm sorry it took me so long." he says softly after several minutes. Reigns gives no indication that he's heard him and Dean continues, "I'm so sorry that I fuckin' failed you man. I should have said something. Those bruises on your neck…"

"He's gonna' show my dad. He's gonna' show my dad, my parents will know–" Roman gasps out, fisting his hands in his hair.

"What's he got on you, Reigns?" Moxley is snapping at the surface again and Dean barely gets him to back down in time. "What the fuck did he do to you?"

"Pictures, videos–" Roman keens wordlessly for a minute, the noise fucking heart-wrenching and so unbearably sad that Dean feels his tears well back up, even as he fights with his pocket.

"They're all on here, right?" he asks softly, holding the phone out to Reigns. Roman's eyes go wide, wide as dinner plates and he carefully scoops the phone up from Dean's hands like its a small animal he's afraid of crushing.

"O-Oh my God." Roman breathes, quickly tapping in the unlock code and sighing heavily as he scrolls through the pages. "Jesus…Jesus Christ he took way more than I knew. Oh my God."

"Delete 'em. Get them gone. Take 'em off his…whatever the fuck, sky-cloud thing. I don't want him to be able to use you ever again." There's something fierce in Dean's chest that he faintly recognizes as Roman taps over the pictures with shaking hands. "Once you make sure they're gone for good, we'll nuke that thing."

"Dean I'm so–"

"Don't you dare apologize for this shit." Dean's fingers drum nervously on the tile floor of the shower. "This is entirely on him. Get that crap deleted and then we're gonna' head home and get some food into you, okay?"

Roman glances up at him, eyes full of tears again and Dean wants to murder Rollins. Reigns quickly ducks his head, mumbling something about how I'll be okay–

"Reigns." Dean taps the top edge of the phone. "You're my roommate. Not only that, you're my best, best fuckin' friend. I love you, man. Do you want to shower here or at home?"

"Home, home. Please. Let me just…I have to wash my face. Get this taste out of my mouth." Roman says softly.

And if Dean crushes the phone a little harder than he needs to on the pavement outside the facility, well, it's not as if it would matter to anyone.

…

Roman's nightmares start almost immediately. Dean gets maybe a week of quiet nights and then he's awoken by Roman crying and begging, loud enough that he can hear it in his room down the hall. He bolts out of his bed, yanking on his boxers and then running down the hall.

In retrospect he probably shouldn't have tried to open the door quite so vigorously. Probably also shouldn't have slammed his head into it with his momentum like a goddamn overexcited lanky dog on a hardwood floor.

When he comes back around Reigns is leaning over him, a bag of frozen peas pressed to his forehead. "Shit Dean, I'm so sorry." Roman apologizes, "I put a chair in front of the door because it doesn't lock."

"I knew that." Dean mutters, head still a little fuzzy. "You were cryin'. You okay?" Alright, maybe he's a bit worse at this comforting stuff.

Roman shrugs, and he gets that look on his face. That kind of…far away look. "I'll be fine."

"Oh no no no." Dean growls, shoving Roman's hand away and getting to his feet. "You've been goddamn driftin' ever since what happened. You helped me when I was havin' my issues. Let me help, man."

"Seriously Dean, I'll be alright." Roman's sad, he's so fucking sad and he's hurting and God fucking dammit Dean is so ready to be done with this fucking hardass bullshit.

"Reigns." His hand ghosts over Reigns' neck, doesn't actually press down but it's enough to make Roman's breathing stutter. Dean hears that and his eyes half-lid. "What do you need, Roman?" he asks softly. "What do I need to do?"

"Nothing." Roman replies just as quietly.

Dean chokes out a laugh. "That's a lie and you fuckin' know it Reigns. Let me help you, dammit."

"You want to help? You really want to help? Because I'm a goddamn mess right now Ambrose and I'm not entirely sure that you're going to make anything better." Roman snaps and Dean's had it.

"Oh you want to fuckin' bet?" Ambrose growls, hand landing firm on Roman's wrist. Not enough to hurt, not enough to bruise. Just enough to know that he's here. "C'mon. I'm not soft like you but if you'll accept these goddamn angles in my bed I imagine yours will be just fine." He hauls Roman almost bodily to the bed, taking a risk and urging him to lay down.

Dean tucks Roman's face into his chest like Roman has done for him so many times, arms tight around him as the tears come. "You're going to be fine, you tough son of a bitch." Dean murmurs, kissing Roman's forehead. "You're gonna' be alright. You cry until you're empty. It's gonna' hurt for a while, Reigns. I want to fucking kill him for what he did." Dean sighs heavily. "You're a damn beautiful, kindhearted motherfucker and while no one deserves this shit, you of all people deserve it the least."

Roman says nothing, just digs his fingers into Dean's back a little harder and sobs. Ambrose shushes him, gently running his hands over his body. He cups Roman's throat and presses a kiss to the barely-healed bruises. Reigns makes a different noise at that and it catches Dean off guard.

"Oh."

It's a mixture between a sigh and a groan and Dean is a little worried that he's hurt him but soldiers on, trailing more kisses down his throat. Roman's whole body goes tense. "It's alright, you're alright…" Dean whispers the words against his skin, mouths them over the ugly marks. Roman deserves every ounce of patchwork affection he can scrape up, everything that Dean has to give.

"Why are you like this?" Roman whispers and Dean jerks his head up, confused.

"Like what?"

"I mean, you're above me. You can…you can do whatever you want, Dean. Why are you even bothering with this?" Roman's own confusion is evident. "You know I'm easy. Why–"

"Don't you ever say that shit." Dean growls, lacing his fingers through Roman's and pressing him onto his back. Roman just blinks up at him, and the flinch he tries to hide when Dean ducks his head again makes Dean want to go to pieces. Dean bites his lip and presses his mouth to the bruise on Roman's arm. The bruise on his stomach. The matching ones on his hips.

Roman is panting beneath him and all Dean can think about is how wrong it is that he's banged up like this; it's obviously close to whatever Roman was looking for but all twisted by Seth. "You need someone to muscle you around, right Reigns?" he says finally, looking up at Roman. Reigns flushes under his gaze and Dean's heart clenches. "But not like Seth. I ain't talkin' like that. I'm talkin' the right way." he continues, sliding a finger under the waistband of Roman's boxers and tugging them down his hips.

Roman covers his face as Dean looks down at him, a little surprised at the fact that Reigns is half-hard already. "I know, I know. It's just because I was touchin' you, big guy." Dean soothes, barely recognizing his own voice when he says that. It's dropped to a raspy purr and Roman shifts his hips beneath him. "No shame in that Ro, c'mon. I'm here for you, okay. Like Seth ought to have been. You're such a good boy, Reigns." Dean knows it's a gamble to say but when Roman's body trembles he figures he's picked the right words. "I already know you're obedient, Ro. Seth knew too, and he took advantage of your goodness. But I will never do that."

"M' dirty." Roman groans.

"No. You're good, so fucking good. He's the dirty one." Dean insists, pressing another kiss to an angry hickey on Roman's inner thigh. Jesus Christ, what part of you didn't he bite. "I love you because you're good, Roman. I've associated with enough shit people in my life to know decency when I see it. You held me when I was a shakin' mess, comforted me and kept the heat off me when most guys would have just given up."

"Y…you love me?" Roman's voice sounds so small for someone his size as he peeks out from between his fingers at Dean. "I…how?"

Dean grins up at him. "That look on your face is more than enough payment for the walkin' fuck festival my life has been, Reigns. Let me take care of you, okay? Get that fucker out of your head for a little while."

Roman's hands shakily end up on Dean's shoulders when the other man strokes him to full hardness and presses a kiss to the tip of his cock. "You're so beautiful." Dean whispers, voice rough but surprisingly not wanting for a damn thing. This was all about Roman and it was like his body knew that and for once in his life, decided to listen.

Dean's rusty, he knows he is, but if the sounds Roman was making were any indicator he didn't mind much. And the way Roman arches under him should make him eager, make him hungry and ready, but all it does is make that love love love ache in his chest bloom tenfold.

Reigns' fingers are in his hair, pulling timidly and that sweet, sweet deep fucking voice is singing Dean's praises and it's all so damn good that Dean wants to fucking cry. The little twinges of pain from Roman's grip, the way he can't seem to help what comes out of his mouth.

"Oh God Dean, you're so much better than him, thank you, thank you so much Dean, Jesus Christ Dean–"

Dean may actually cry.

Roman gasps and his hands raise, tugging at Dean's chin. "A-Ambrose-!"

Dean smirks up at him and Roman gives the best noise he's heard out of him yet when Dean makes eye contact. His whole body shudders and then he's cumming, Dean pulling off and stroking him onto his tongue while never breaking his gaze. Roman's blush is back but then he smiles, he fucking smiles and it looks amazing on him. Dean's missed his smiles so much.

"Welcome back, big guy. I knew you were still in there. Just needed someone to scrub the grit off you." Dean says, sitting up and opening his arms. Reigns laughs, pulling him into a kiss and then snuggling into his chest as his eyes close.

Dean stays awake for a while afterwards, and gets roused from his circular musings by a pair of bearded lips softly kissing his chest.

"I love you too." Roman sighs quietly, like he's half-asleep.

Dean can't help his grin. Maybe this affection stuff wasn't so bad after all.

AN: So sorry it took me this long to get this posted over here, I hope you all enjoyed!