So, things start to get a little more serious in this one!

Skovko, I'd love to say the name thing is me being all clever and creative (actually I could say that and you would never know) but this way I find it easier to remember what I've called them. Plus I like breaking whichever wall it's meant to be (the fourth?)

I'm On An Island

Dean had spent much of the day mooching around The Battleground trying his best to look – well – drunk. In the end it hadn't been all that difficult since he didn't really know that part of the city too well and so in the course of simply finding bars to pretend to get drunk in, he had managed to look convincing without doing anything at all.

People had watched him suspiciously from street corners or turned to observe his progress from hushed groups, but for the most part he had appeared so shabby and aimless that he hadn't caused any genuine alarm.

That was it though, he was definitely getting a make-over when the whole undercover kidney-transplant thing was done.

By the time a hazy dusk started to draw in, Dean considered he'd done enough. If one of the organ traffickers had been tailing him – and honestly, the chances were high they had – then he was pretty convinced that his stellar performance would have succeeded in knocking them right off the scent.

No way in hell was Jon Moxley a policeman.

The guy was simply a wandering lush.

Turning the corner to head back to his apartment – or at least the rat infested one Seth had picked out – Dean let out a sigh and plucked at his collar, hunkering down into it as a cold wind stoked up.

Slowly, very slowly, he was starting to get familiarized with the run-down and endlessly dismal looking streets. Tall old buildings glowered down from all around him that could have been attractive if not for the all the grime. Windows were broken, battered cars sat up on blocks and everywhere he looked there was trash and wrappers and mounds of rubbish that blew like tumbleweed in around his feet.

In many ways it was identical to his old neighbourhood – the one he had skirted through when he'd been growing up – and the fact that the bleak surroundings made him uncomfortable were further proof of how far he'd come.

Dean Ambrose wasn't just a kid from the gutters, he was a former street-kid-turned-cop.

He'd done good.

Part of that had been down to Seth and Roman and the brotherhood which had helped them to forge their careers. The other part of it had been down to her entirely and her gift of a home and the love he'd always lacked.

Fuck.

Thinking about her – as ever – made his heart lurch and as he turned another corner he fought down a knot. It meant that he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings and why the van that roared up alongside him made him jump.

"What the – ,"

He knew he was in trouble before the doors even opened, working on instinct and a feeling in his gut. Not that the knowledge helped him move any faster and he was still in the process of grinding to a standstill when three figures launched out at him.

Three figures wearing marks.

Shit.

Instantly Dean spun and tried to dart away from them, but the element of surprise had given his assailants the advantage and before he could even move a step away from them, there were hands across his body, hauling him back.

"Hey – ," he barked, the tone shot through with anger but stifled as strong fingers moved up to wrap around his throat. Other hands were busy at his waist, encircling him and pinning his arms against his sides roughly even as he tried to flail them around. The sense of helplessness was almost overwhelming, but Dean was a fighter.

He was not giving up.

Throwing his skull back he collided with a forehead and managed to draw an actual yelp. Quickly the hand around his throat dropped away again and as he tried to swing his arms free, he took the chance to call out,

"Hey," he yelled again, still kicking and struggling, "Get the fuck off me – somebody – ,"

No one came.

He was still very slowly being dragged towards the vehicle but it was obviously harder grabbing him than his assailants had thought and although that – in theory – gave him time to find assistance, no one on the streets seemed much inclined to help.

God damn bastards.

Dean tore an arm free and swung it out wildly, catching someone hard in the gut. Another hand dove in and grabbed his hair fiercely, yanking it back so sharply he heard his neck click.

"Just get him the fuck in there,"

Fucking Wade Barrett.

Dean opened his mouth to shout out an obscenity but a meaty paw clamped over his face. He tried to pry it off again distastefully but his energy was failing him and the gang were starting to get onto the same page. The hands came at him again and held him firmly and the sidewalk began to skim beneath his feet. He was being dragged bodily back towards the vehicle and for all his fighting, he was losing ground, fast.

Fuck.

Glancing up wildly he spotted a group of locals, playing chequers in the street alongside the road. He tried to call out but they weren't even looking, they were ignoring the situation.

What the fuck was wrong with them?

As the lip of the van bumped the back of Dean's legs, the bigger of the arms holding him lifted him clean up, launching him into the air like a ragdoll and then slamming him, spine-first into the back. The impact drove the wind clean out of him and he lay on the dirty metal base seeing lights and stars. Within seconds there was rocking as two figures jumped in after him and the doors were swung shut as someone quickly punched the gas. They lurched from the sidewalk with an actual screech of rubber but as Dean tried to sit up, he was roughly pinned down.

"Stay there fucker," Barrett growled at him, rolling him forcibly onto his stomach and yanking up his arms to pin them tight behind his back.

"What the fuck – ," Dean spat out breathlessly, trying to ignore the pulsating waves of pain. He winced as Barrett pulled his arms up a little further and then struggled like a demon as a plastic tie dropped round his wrists, "No, hey – get the fuck off me – ,"

A body dropped down right across his hipbones, sitting on him and essentially trapping him in place. Judging by the girth of the thighs it was the Bulgarian – in his desperation Dean had utterly forgotten his name.

Vlad? Dimitri?

It was something Russian sounding…

Hands pawed around his face and he shook his head at them, powerless to defend himself as a blindfold was dropped in place.

"What – no – ,"

"Sssh, it's alright, we have to do this."

"Have to do what?" Dean gasped, "What's goin' on?"

He had never felt so helpless in his life and his heart was hammering so fiercely in his ribcage that he could hardly hear the lilting response. It came from a little further off in the vehicle and he turned his head towards it, seeing nothing but dark.

A blindfold?

Really?

They were murderers and kinky? What a winning combination that was.

"Easy Mox,"

"Sheamus? What the fuck man?"

"I know," he growled, "I know, alright?"

"What the fuck is this? You snatched me off the street – ,"

"This is the way it has to be."

"Why? Get off me."

The last part of the sentence was directed at Rusev – that was his name – and the fact that the giant was crushing his spinal cord beneath his fucking granite seeming knees. In futile desperation, Dean kicked his legs out, hoping to catch some part of the guy at least. In the end however all he managed to accomplish was getting Barrett to snatch up another handful of his hair.

"Stop fucking struggling you stupid bastard."

Yeah, not gonna happen.

Sheamus' sudden shout made him jump,

"Will everyone just calm the fuck down? Jesus. I can barely hear myself think."

"Well maybe you'd like to fucking come back here and try and keep him still?" Barrett ground out. His fingers were still wound tightly through Dean's follicles and he was forcing his head back, which really fucking hurt. In response, Dean grunted and sucked a sharp breath in, trying not to give him the satisfaction of letting on.

"Look," Sheamus sighed, "I know this isn't ideal, but this is the way it has to be."

"Why?"

Dean's question came out as a gasp of discomfort and Barrett responded by releasing his hair. Dean's head thudded down and landed hard against the metal and he hissed in both pain and irritation all at once.

Bastard.

From somewhere up front – Dean assumed he was driving – Sheamus continued to speak calmly into back, replying as if they were off on vacation, rather than having just kidnapped a man.

"You remember me saying there were people against us? People who didn't want us to succeed?"

"Uh – yeah?"

That part of it was true at least. Dean could remember pretty much everything the Irishman had said and done. Images of the poor guy lying in the morgue flashed through his head and he shuddered and fought them down.

No.

Thinking like that wasn't any help at all.

"Well if those people knew who was performing the operations," Sheamus continued, with false cheer in his tone and really the situation was so damn out there that Dean was starting to wonder if he wasn't dreaming it all, "Then they would shut him down – they would stop us saving people and they would come after those who helped us along the way."

"People like you," Rusev put in helpfully from where he was still half-squashing Dean's spine.

"So if you don't know who's doing it and you don't know where we're going, then you don't have to lie for us. See what I mean? We're not doing this to frighten you buddy. We're looking out for you like I promised we would."

Dean almost snorted.

Hey, thanks very much man.

But instead he grunted and wiggled his hips,

"You – uh – you think I can maybe get up now?"

"Sure."

Almost instantly Rusev clambered off him and Dean rolled over onto his side. A big meaty paw came down across his shoulder and hauled him up until he was sitting on his ass. Since it didn't hit him or hurt him unnecessarily, he assumed that it was still the Bulgarian behemoth and not Wade Barrett and his semi-sadistic ways.

"Better?"

As Dean's back bumped up against the van sides, he nodded haltingly,

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"So do you understand why we had to do things this way?"

He didn't but he nodded regardless.

"Yes."

"We'll be there soon, this won't take long."

Dean stomach flipped clean over then sank again. What wouldn't take them long?

"They're uh – I mean, these are just tests, right? What we're doin'? Takin' blood and shit like that?"

"Absolutely," Sheamus cooed back falsely, "We just need to check you're healthy and strong."

Somewhere close by him he heard Barrett chuckle and the noise made Dean's skin start to prickle with sweat. Briefly he thought back to Roman's assessment and the fact that none of them knew what came next. What if the next stage was harvesting his organs? What if they were fucking driving him to his death? How the hell was he supposed to get out of it? His hands were tied and he couldn't get his phone. He wondered if Roman and Seth were looking for him and thinking about them made him wish they were there.

Even Seth.

Huh.

That was surprising.

As the van lurched round a corner with another screech of wheels, Dean was slung sideways and toppled into a figure. Judging from the punch to the ribs the movement garnered, he assumed it was Barrett.

The guy was a tool.

In his head he was desperately trying to process information, attempting to memorize the various turns. So far he had counted two lefts and three rights but trying to gauge the distance in between them was pretty difficult bruised and fucking blind as he was. In the end he guessed maybe fifteen or twenty minutes passed before the van pulled up somewhere and the engine shut off.

Shit.

Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

Dean decided that it was probably bad. After all, it would have been difficult to kill him and strip out his kidneys when they were skidding around on the road. Much easier would be to take him to a building and murder him in relative stability.

He tensed,

"What's goin' on, man? Does this mean we're there?"

Barrett cuffed him across the back of the head and growled in his ear,

"Shut the fuck up."

Dean decided to take that as an affirmative and twisted his hands in desperation.

Not good.

Due to his personal – and strangely intense – dislike of him, Barrett had pulled the cuffs together stupidly tight and not only was Dean unable to wriggle his way out of them, but he was pretty sure the blood was being roundly cut off too.

As the van doors creaked open, his whole body stiffened and when hands dropped down on his shoulders, he flinched. He had been expecting the none-too-gentle touch of Barrett and so when an Irish brogue filtered down to him in place of that, he actually sighed.

Oh thank god.

"Easy feller, it's your old pal Sheamus here, "

"Talk to me man, what's happenin' now?"

Fingers leant him forwards and then scrabbled around his back and the next thing he knew, the plastic tie was gone. His wrists almost screamed with the blissful release of it and his shoulders ached as he swung his arms back round.

"There," Sheamus offered, surprisingly brightly, "I don't think we'll be needing those anymore. They were just until I could explain the situation – make you see we're all on the same page. Whoops, not that though feller, that stays where it is for now. Remember what I told you? The less you know."

The final part of his cheery sounding sentence had been in response to Dean moving his hands up and trying to push the blindfold away. At the same time the Irishman had caught him by the jacket sleeves and held them firmly.

Dean swallowed,

"Come on, I can't go anywhere with this on. How can I see where I'm goin', y'know?"

"You'll just have to trust me," Sheamus responded without any irony, "Do you trust me pal?"

Biting down hard on his tongue, Dean bit back a derisive little bark. Did he trust him? No he fuckng didn't. How could he? The man was a black market organ seller. A murderer not to mention a kidnapper too. Nothing about the Irishman even remotely screamed trustworthy but then Sheamus wasn't asking the policeman – he wasn't asking Dean 'The Shield' Ambrose what he thought. Sheamus was asking poor down-and-out Jon Moxley and in line with that character, Dean offered up a shrug,

"Uh, I mean, I – I guess,"

"Good. Now come on, follow me. Go slowly now, nice and easy, I've got you man."

In that respect at least the guy was true to his word and throughout the process of climbing from the vehicle and negotiating their way into the building, Sheamus kept his hands on Dean's arms, coaxing him and instructing him through doorways and down staircases.

Because that was the direction they were headed.

Down.

Dean had literally no clue where the hell they were but the knowledge that they were descending into the bowels of some random building filled him with an unshakeable dread. What the hell good ever happened below street level? Certainly nothing that he could think.

In the first few corridors there had been bright lights humming and he had been able to make out clinical white walls, then all of a sudden, they had turned into a stairwell and his vision had gone from negligible to no fucking chance.

Great.

All the while Sheamus' hands had stayed on him, leading him through a series of elaborate twists and turns. By the time the four of them trooped through a doorway and into what sounded like a pretty spacious room, Dean's head was practically spinning in confusion, which only worsened as he was pushed down into a chair.

"There you go feller," Sheamus grunted, "Take the weight off."

"Blindfold stays on, right?"

"Got it in one."

The only thing Dean could see beyond the dark material were the tips of shoes at the bottom of his vision – two of them to be exact – with more moving around him somewhere behind his pulsating head. He had no idea where Barrett had got to, or Rusev for that matter, but he assumed they were there. The Englishman in particular would probably be keen to witness whatever the hell they would be doing to him down there.

It occurred to Dean that he was utterly helpless.

If they had wanted to kill him then the choice was all theirs yet at the same time Sheamus taking the cuffs off had helped him. He wouldn't have done if they'd wanted him dead, right?

In a corner of the room there was a rustling of plastic and then the sound of a quick and heavy tread. At once everyone else in the room seemed to tense up, as if their boss had arrived.

Maybe he had.

Seconds later a hand grabbed his chin firmly and levered his head up as if to get a better look,

"Here he is," he heard Sheamus offer, "This is Jon Moxley – he wants to help."

Dean almost snorted.

Still with the help line? He was certainly method, he'd given him that.

"Hmmm."

The noise was accompanied by the appearance of new shoe-tips in the fringes of Dean's fully limited view. Unlike Sheamus' worn workman-style boots, the new kicks were made from swanky brown leather and polished to within an inch of their life. They certainly weren't the type of shoes worn by street lackeys and on that basis alone, Dean knew who he was.

Standing directly in front of him was the surgeon.

Maybe if nothing else, Dean could get a clue to who he was – something to take back to the others to help the case. That was if the surgeon didn't slice him and harvest his organs there and then.

A tiny shudder rippled its way through him and he fought it down.

"Sheamus, man? What's goin' on?"

"Easy Mox, like I told you, we're just going to take some blood for tests."

The next thing Dean knew there were hands on his shoulders and judging from how roughly the one on the left stripped down his jacket, he guessed that Barrett was in the mix.

"Hey – ,"

At the sound of a tiny ripping noise, Dean tried to pull away from them, aware that with the jacket pooled down around his midriff, the flesh of his arms was fully exposed. Someone elbowed him roughly in the shoulder blade before starting to roll up the sleeves of his shirt.

Barrett was certainly getting a kick out of things.

The damn guy needed a kick.

In the head.

New fingers started to prod at his elbow and he could tell that whoever it was – the surgeon with any luck – was trying to find a suitable vein.

"Takin' blood, right?" Dean asked warily, trying to keep the panic from his tone, "That's all this is, right?"

"Yep, that's all. There's nothing to worry about."

But Sheamus' reassurances weren't that convincing and as the needle slid into his arm, Dean hissed. Maybe they were just taking blood after all, or maybe they were injecting him or knocking him out. His heart both seemed to freeze and implode on him and the breath ripped from his throat.

Holy fuck.

He was starkly aware that what was happening could be end game but there was precious little he could do about it all. It didn't help that the surgeon didn't speak to him – or to them, or anyone at all – because it meant that the chances of getting useful information were zero and with them went Dean's chances of finding any upside.

After about a minute the needle was drawn out again and Dean couldn't help but sigh in relief.

"There," Sheamus slapped him roughly on the shoulders, like a coach warming up his reserve team on the bench, "All done, see? I told you it wouldn't take long. Didn't I say we'd look after you, huh?"

Dean nodded haltingly,

"Yeah, you did. But – hey – don't I get to see this doctor at some point? I mean, I'd kinda like to meet the guy that might be cutting me open in a few days, y'know?"

"Sorry feller, you know that can't happen. It's for your own good buddy."

Sure it fucking was.

A rustle of plastic curtains in the background told Dean that the man in question had left again and although it meant he couldn't bust the case wide open, it also meant that no surgery was going to be done. At least that was something.

They really had just taken blood.

Once again Sheamus helped him to stand upright and then led Dean back the way they had come. Or at least, that's what it seemed like. If the Irishman had walked him to fucking Nova Scotia then Dean wouldn't have been in the position to know. He only realised they were back at the Mystery Machine when he practically tripped over it, landing clumsily on his knees.

"Fuck – ,"

"Sorry feller," Sheamus offered mildly, "Now let's get you safely back home again, alright?"

Safely back home?

What the hell was he? A little old lady with heavy grocery bags? If the Irish moron had wanted him home safely then he should never have kidnapped him and fucking tied him up. Instead of express that however, Dean merely nodded and went back to the Moxley persona again,

"Yeah – uh – that sounds good."

As the van doors slammed shut and Sheamus floored the engine, a figure sat down heavily on Dean's right side, bumping up against his ribcage roughly and then winding an arm in tight around his neck.

Barrett.

"If you think you can try something because you've got those cuffs off, guess again."

"Hey, I don't have a problem with you man."

That was a lie but it seemed wise to say it anyway considering the boa constrictor type grip that the Englishman was slowly employing on his throat.

"Well I've got one with you mate."

"Why?"

"I don't fucking like you. There's something off with you," Barrett's growl made Dean briefly stiffen.

The guy was perceptive and that was not good.

"What're you talkin' about man? I'm on the level."

Barrett replied with an off-kilter laugh, clearly not buying what Dean had to sell. Leaning in closer and tightening his grip a little, he issued a growl right into Dean's ear.

"I've got my fucking eye on you Moxley. You try to cross us or you step out of line, I will hunt you down and make you scream, mark my words."

"Uh, sure dude – they're marked."

They drove the rest of way back in silence, although Dean wasn't entirely sure where they were heading to. Surely not the place the gang had first grabbed him? They couldn't be that confident about the whole deal? Either way the van eventually stopped moving and once again Dean's heart rose up into his throat. Seizing him roughly up by the collar, Barrett proceeded to haul him back out, half dragging him over the lip of the vehicle and out into what Dean could only hope was streetlight.

"That stays on," the Englishman snarled at him, prodding at the blindfold and nearly stabbing him in the eye, "For five fucking minutes after we leave, you hear me?"

Dean nodded obediently,

"Whatever you say."

Another set of footsteps drew in alongside them and Barrett's hand was quickly shunted back off. There was a grumble and then the van doors slammed again behind him and Dean wondered if he'd been left alone.

"Sorry about him," Sheamus offered suddenly and the proximity of the accent made him jump.

Fuck.

"I uh – he doesn't seem to like me much."

"He's pretty tightly wound but that's just his thing. You've done a good deed here you know that buddy? Stepping up for someone in need like that? You're an absolute hero man and hey, sorry about the whole grabbing you off the street thing – I hope you can see now why it has to be that way?"

Again Dean nodded,

Just fucking go already.

"Yeah, I get it man. No big deal."

The big broad hand clapped him firmly on the shoulder and he jumped again like a frightened teenage girl.

"We'll be in touch Mox," Sheamus offered brightly, before mercifully turning and walking away again, "Shouldn't be long now – we can move as soon as we get the results back."

As the crunching of Sheamus' shoes shifted off from him, Dean stepped forward,

"Wait, when'll that be?"

The van door creaked open,

"I don't know. A couple of days? A week? I'll call you man, I'll stay in contact."

Great.

Dean snorted but it was muffled by slamming as Sheamus clambered into the trafficking-mobile. There was another screech of rubber – did the man have no clutch control – and then Dean heard the vehicle drive away. He waited until it had rumbled off a distance and then took a chance and snatched off the scarf, blinking owlishly into the harsh streetlight and panting like he'd run a mile.

What the fuck had happened to him? What the fuck would happen next?

With shaking hands he would never admit to, Dean pulled out his phone and went straight to speed dial. A familiarly gruff voice answered on the third ring and the sound of it alone made him sigh,

"You okay?"

"No I'm fuckin' not Roman."

"Why? Where are you?"

"I don't know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I just got fuckin' kidnapped and in a couple of days, I'm gonna be dead."

Dun dun duuuuunnnn! Moving into halfway mode now, so expect things to hot up!