Skovko, Hmmm, I could tell you but then I would have to kill you. Only kidding...I'll give you a maybe.
Andrew27King, No worries, glad you're still enjoying it!
AngelOfDeathOfWrestling, Yay, thank you!
Here we go...
All Of My Friends Were There
"What about this one?"
Dean glanced over, casting his eyes across the image Seth had brought up and then shook his head,
"Nah, he was bigger than that, kinda round."
"You're not giving me a whole lot to go on here Dean."
"What do you want from me? I'm not the guy's mother. He was European, fat and had long hair."
Seth threw his hands up and swiped his finger across the tablet screen,
"Fine, then I guess I'll just have to keep looking."
"I guess you will."
Roman grinned at the terse exchange before him and then sipped at his coffee to shield the sight. The three of them had been huddled around the conference table in the warehouse since first light that morning, just trawling through notes. None of them had actually discussed when they were starting, they had all just sort of turned up one by one. It had pleased Roman to know that they still had that telepathy but on the down side it seemed to have put Dean in a funk.
"Get you a refill babe?"
Dean merely grunted, which Roman took as a grudging sort of yes. Swiping up the coffee mug he headed for the kitchen, leaving his teammates to continue with the work. Since the previous evening's clandestine meet up they had managed to identify a number of the gang. Wade had been easy – thanks to his long rap sheet – but Sheamus had been a little harder to find. Not that there were many pasty Irishmen in Suplex but that he hadn't been in town long enough to make his name. In the end it had been down to an old Irish arrest warrant to give them his particulars.
Stephen Farrelly.
Born in Dublin and wanted in connection with a series of armed raids.
As it turned out you didn't have to be an asshole to be in The League of Nations but it definitely helped. That's what they were still calling them as a shorthand.
The League of Nations.
Dean's jokey nickname for them had stuck. It was possibly the one thing that morning that had made his grouchy frown fade, although Seth's sudden bark of excitement helped,
"Got him."
He spun the swanky tablet triumphantly in Dean's direction and a familiarly goatee-framed face stared back.
Dean blinked in surprise,
"Yeah, that's the guy."
"Miroslav Barnyashev," Seth replied, "Goes by Rusev. He's Bulgarian. Long-time Mafia underling. Probably looking to start his own empire and has fallen into trafficking because the money's good."
Returning back with three cups of steaming coffee, Roman glanced over Seth's shoulder at the page, frowning a little as he appraised the blurry mugshot and grumbling a little,
"Sounds like one hell of a guy."
"He's not much better in person," Dean put in and Roman snorted wryly,
"Now that I can believe."
As he sat down, Seth promptly stood up again and crossed to drag some sheets from the printer. He pinned them up in a line on the projector screen and suddenly they were staring into the faces of their gang.
"Gentlemen, I present The League of Nations."
Roman sat back,
"So these are our guys, huh?"
"Minus the surgeon," Seth supplied ruefully, "But these are the face of the operation, yes."
"Which is the one that had attitude last night?" Roman turned to Dean, "Put you into the wall?"
In response Dean stretched out a lazy looking finger and Seth – standing closest – tapped the photo on the right,
"Wade Barrett," he offered in Dean's coffee-drinking silence, "The Englishman."
"Any idea what his damn problem was?"
Dean shrugged lazily,
"Come on, you've seen those ears. I mean, look at 'em. If he flapped hard enough he could get airborne with those things. Somethin' like that would piss a guy off, right?"
Despite the situation, Roman grinned and threw his eyes skywards while shaking his head.
"So that's why he went at you? Because he hates his own ears?"
"Either that or I got to him somehow, not sure which."
Seth smirked,
"I'll say definitely the second one."
"Well," Dean shrugged, "You're probably right, what with you bein' the master of pissin' people off. Kinda think you and Barrett could bond about it. Swap tips on gettin' under people's skin."
"Cute Dean, real cute."
Roman chuckled broadly in response to the sniping and the sound of his laughter drew a hard stare from both. As far as his unhappy teammates were concerned, then the bickering was part of their personal warfare but from the outside it was obvious that the major heat was gone. The reason they were squabbling was because they didn't know how to talk to one another but although it was difficult, Roman knew it would come.
He knew it because – when the time seemed appropriate – he was going to force it.
Come hell or high water they were going to get on.
"So," he sighed, shaking off the enmity and turning back to their scattering of files, "Where are we on finding the surgeon? Found anything to help us narrow down this list of names?"
He was referring to the directory that Stephanie had given them of the city's nephrologists. Dean shook his head,
"Nope. No one from The League has got connections with any of 'em, so either our guy's not a registered professional – which they said he was – or he's keepin' his head down low."
Seth slid back into his chair with a frown,
"You believe a word they say?"
"No, but it makes sense. You saw the victims, those incisions were the real deal. Whoever's doin' this shit is properly trained."
"Which means," Roman sighed, picking the sheet up, "That we're back to square one."
"Well let's think about this," Seth reached over and took the page from him, placing it down so all three of them could see, "Based on the fact that The League are all foreign, how about we start with that? Discount anyone trained in this country and focus on the ones that weren't."
Dean blinked,
"What, you think they've got some immigration society?"
"I don't see you offering another idea."
At Seth's point Dean sat back with a grumble and waved his hands in air.
It's your call.
Scanning the list quickly, Roman drank in the details, pulling a face,
"That's still eight names. We can't keep them all under surveillance with just the three of us."
"We could split up and interview them," Seth shrugged, "Well, the two of us can – the drunk over here needs to keep his cover intact."
Dean snorted wryly and Roman grinned at him,
"Apple juice dude,"
His teammate turned his nose up,
"Ugh. When did I become so uncool?"
"That's rhetorical, right?"
"Shut up."
Seth watched them quietly, envying their playful ease and wishing that he could be an accepted part of their game. Possibly he would at some point in the future, but Dean had made it clear that point wasn't today and so instead he contented himself with simply being a part of the team and to that end, he shunted a piece of paper across the table and under Dean's nose.
"Here,"
"What the hell's this?"
"Your new home."
The scruffy copper blonde frowned at him,
"My what?"
"For your undercover gig, I rented you a place – just in case they try to keep tabs on you. I thought you should probably move into the neighbourhood."
Dean stared down at the particulars in horror, taking in the tall, unloved brick building, the washing hung from windows and the trash piled up outside. It was pretty far removed from his nice clean apartment and nowhere he would want to spend the night.
"You're fuckin' kiddin' me with this shit, right?"
"No," Seth blinked at back at him evenly, "I'm not."
"You seriously expect me to move into this place?"
"Just until the case is done."
There was a sudden burst of energy as Dean slammed down the details, palming the table so hard the whole thing shook. No way would he move out of his apartment.
No way.
His apartment was the one place he still had her. The one place he could still feel her presence all around him. It had her comforter and the millions of damn cushions she had bought and the candles and everything. He couldn't give that up. Not for a second, not for a minute and not for any god damn case.
"Dean?"
He didn't realise he was almost hyper-ventilating until he felt Roman's hand reach out and grab his sleeve. Both men were staring at him wide-eyed across the table and their concern made him instantly snatch his arm away, shunting his chair back and jumping to his feet again to pace around the warehouse like a tiger in a cage.
"Dean," Roman tried again, firm but gentle and tapering off as he struggled to find something to say,
"I'm not doin' it."
Seth blinked across at him and his expression changed suddenly as he clued in to exactly what had gone wrong. Dean flinched on seeing it, hating that he got him but too amped up to put the feeling into words,
"Hey," Seth offered, "It's only for a little while and believe it or not, I'm trying to protect you. I don't want these guys finding out who you are. We're dealing with a professional outfit, we've got to assume they'll be watching you, alright?"
"Fuck you," Dean spat back, but it wasn't so vehement because – god help him – he knew Seth was probably right. Not that it made the thought any easier. In fact, if anything, it made it much worse.
He sat back down in his chair again heavily and dropped his frantic feeling head into his hands.
"Look man," Seth continued, as if it were the clincher, "I'll go down tomorrow and install some cameras round the place – outside too – I'll make sure you're covered."
"Fuck you," Dean repeated but it was almost a grumble, like their teammate was a petulant post-tantrum throwing child.
Christ.
Honestly it physically hurt Seth to see it – to see Dean so broken and defeated and lost. A flood of familial defensiveness surged through him and made him feel angry on Dean's behalf. He wanted to take whoever had upset him and beat them into a pulp on the ground. But that was the problem. There was no whoever. Dean wasn't physically wounded as such – he was grieving and that meant that not only was there no one to blame for it but there was also no way of making it better. Once upon a time he might have been able to – he might have been able to offer a hug, or a shoulder to cry on – but those days were gone and the fact that Dean was still resisting his friendship made it virtually impossible to help.
It was still there though – that flicker of brotherhood.
Seth was desperate to make things right.
Reaching across with a sigh of understanding, Roman dropped his palm down across the back of Dean's neck, squeezing slightly and massaging the muscles there until his fingers were practically threading through the curls.
"Easy," he rumbled, quietly and soothingly, "Easy uce. We get it. It's okay."
Dean leant into the touch and squeezed his eyes shut and Seth was glad that he could still find comfort in one of them at least.
Even if it wasn't him.
"It better not be infested."
"Huh?"
When Seth blinked himself back into the present, Dean was glaring up at him with his jaw firmly set. Any vestige of sentiment had vanished as he had – once again – thrown the personality switch. He never had liked showing his emotions and it was oddly comforting to see that hadn't changed.
"I said it had better not be infested."
Seth shrugged mildly,
"I honestly don't know. How could I? I rented the place – I didn't build it. Besides, it's just a place to put your head down. Couple of hours a day man, max. You're supposed to be a no-hope alcoholic. You're hardly going to be there playing house."
"So what? I make a big deal of staggerin' back there every night and that's it?"
"Pretty much."
"You can handle that," Roman offered, "Right?"
His hand was still in place resting heavily on Dean's nape and as much as he resented it, the solidity kept him calm.
"Guess I fuckin' have to."
That was a yes – or at least as close as they were likely to get to one – and Seth nodded back at him.
"I'll be there too, on surveillance across the street, so it isn't like you'll be on your own."
Dean snorted,
"Well isn't this the gift that keeps on givin'?"
"Hey," Roman frowned as Seth's face fell, "Be nice man."
"Not gonna happen Roman."
He wasn't lying either.
The simple truth was Dean didn't feel like being nice. In fact, hurting Seth made him feel perversely good. It was almost like picking over a scab or a deep jagged scar or a surgery wound. For three years he had thrown mental jabs at Seth Rollins and suddenly he had the chance to do it for real. It didn't matter that the younger man was trying his hardest. He had lost his chance.
The old days were gone.
Although at the same time Dean couldn't deny the sudden stab of something at the crushed look that flashed up over Seth's face.
Damn.
He didn't care.
Dean didn't care about him. Except deep down he probably always would. It was the reason he fought against him so violently. No way would he be taken in just to lose Seth again. He couldn't cope with losing anybody else he loved.
Not that he loved Seth –
"Ugh."
He groaned loudly and dropped his head back into his hands.
"So," Roman started, seeing the struggle and moving them back a few paces instead, "How are we going to split up the suspects? You take the East Side, I'll take the West?"
"Sounds fair," Seth nodded, glancing at the paper and absently naming the suspects out loud, "Claudio Castagnoli, studied in Switzerland, works at Smackdown General,"
"West Side – he's mine."
"Savelina Fanene, born in Australia but studied in Hawaii, practice on the East Side – ,"
"Okay, she's yours."
"Alberto Del Rio – ,"
A sudden snort stopped them and they turned to find Dean offering up a smile. Roman's brows knitted together at him worriedly,
"What, you know him?"
"No."
"Then what's with the face?"
With the topic turning away from his feelings and allowing him to briefly escape his own head, Dean grinned broadly as the sands beneath him shifted and deposited him back onto much firmer ground,
"My first kiss was with a girl called Rio."
Seth blinked back at him,
"Seriously? That was her name?"
Dean shrugged,
"Her mom was a Simon Le Bon fan,"
"Wow."
At the sound of Seth's amusement, Dean folded his arms accusingly and the leather of his jacket gave the movement a tiny squeak.
"Let me guess Rollins, your first kiss was with a girl called – like – Ashley or – ,"
"Stacy."
Dean threw his hands up,
"Yep, what did I say?"
"What the hell's wrong with being called Stacy?" Seth fired back, feeling defensive on her behalf.
"Nothin'," Dean shrugged, "If you're into the whole – like – cookie-cutter, butter-wouldn't-melt, church-on-a-Sunday, girl-next-door type."
"We were thirteen, I was a little too young to have a type."
"Not good at stayin' faithful to anythin' much, right Seth?"
As the conversation looked set to go south again and both warring factions bristled visibly across the space, they were interrupted by the sound of Roman's cell phone ringing and the violent buzz of its vibration alert. Scooping it up with a sigh of frustration Roman answered without seeing who it was, his opening snap fading away in submission as the voice of his boss snipped back in terse tones.
"Roman? I need you boys down at the morgue. We've got another body. Same marks as the rest."
"Damn," he replied, rubbing his eyes wearily and drinking in questioning looks from Dean and Seth, "We'll be there right away."
She hung up immediately and in the contemplative silence, he looked up at his teammates.
Things were starting to get serious quick.
"Looks like The League has struck again. They've found another one."
Dean groaned a little.
Great.
See you all next time for another thrilling installment of…The Shield Reunited (cue old 1950s suspenseful TV music).
Hope you enjoyed it!