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Was it days? Months? Hours? Dean didn’t know anymore. There was a constant roar in his head that started when that chair wrapped around Romans back and hadn’t stopped.
He didn’t want it too. He knew he was crazy, Roman certainly thought so when he had tried to explain, but it gave him a focus. It kept him grounded when his heart was trying to drown him.
He should have known He’d be here. Dean didn’t know why they were here (Roman had said something about obligations) but he should have known that He would be shaking hands and kissing babies.
Deans skin crawled, watching Him in His stupid suit with His stupid face and His stupid fake smiles. He leaned further into the shadows, the warmth the Samoan threw off the only thing keeping him steady.
Fuck Him. Fuck Him and His fucking new family. Fuck Him and fuck the memories and fuck his fucking heart for doing this to him.
Fuck Him for doing this to him. For crawling into his bed and under his fucking skin and making himself at home, only to burn the fucking house down.
Roman was saying something and he knew he should be listening, but all he could see was Him. Him and the way He was resting His hand on Ortons fucking arm while He laughed.
The roaring got louder as he watched from the shadows as Orton slid his arm around His waist.
Dean didn’t know when he decided to move, but he registered Romans sharp ‘Dean!’ A second too late and suddenly he’s shoving away from the wall and barreling towards Him.
He must have heard Roman saying his name, because He turned instinctively towards the sound, making Deans blood boil. His eyes widen and Dean feels like he’s won.
"AMBROSE!"
Triple H is there but it’s too late. He’s flat on His back, Dean straddling His hips, slamming his skull against the other mans, grinning a wicked smile at the hiss of pain.
He bucks, flipping them over and ripping His new stupid suit jacket (another victory) and sends His fist into Deans smirking mouth and Dean laughs, giddy, remembering a better time.
"Fuck you Ambrose, you fucking psycho!"
The smile is gone and the rage that replaces it feel like fire ripping through his veins and he sees the change in him in His eyes, seeing the flash of fear and regret.
Dean snarls wrapping his hands (like that chair) around His throat, nails digging into the back of His neck, drawing blood.
He trashes, taking a gasping breath as He’s ripped away by Daddy and things blur again now that He’s gone.
Roman is there, standing in front of him (when did he stand up?) and Dean is looking around him at Triple Hs rage. Roman has a hand behind him, pushing against Deans middle, not holding him back, just…resting there. Like he needs to just know he’s there and Dean feels.
He feels thankful for the other man. He feels the trust he shoved away rush under his skin.
And he can’t stop. He feels everything. All the hurt and the betrayal and the fuckingheartbreak. He feels the love and the hate and he’s fucking drowning.
And all he can see is two toned hair and bloody teeth.
Deans in a dark hotel room the next time life comes into focus again.
More time lost. Hours? How did they get here?
They..He knows the Samoan is here, just like he always is. He stayed. He held him up after He shattered him. Shattered them.
Roman is sitting on his own bed, shirtless and exhausted. “You back?”
Dean shrugs, flopping back. “How long?”
“‘Bout 45 minutes. Trips threw us out after you attack Se- Him. We came right back here. You smoked a whole pack this time.”
Roman Reigns was his hero, Dean decides. His very own fucking Superman.
"Thanks." He says instead.
The rushing is back. He’s feeling again. He’s feeling warm and safe and fucking pathetic.
Romans hands are warm against his back, pressing Deans chest against his own. Dean has his face buried in the Supermans neck, breathing heavy and lips bruised.
"How long?"
"Minutes. I got you."
Fuck.
"Fuck."
"What?"
Fuck.
They’re under the sheets, legs tangled and Romans wrapped around him like a large, protective vine. Dean doesn’t care how much time has passed, because his body is sweaty and aching and Romans breathing is even and steady and this is new and wonderful and Dean doesn’t mind feeling this.
"Stop thinking so loud, Man." Roman grumbles, pressing closer, harder, more.
"….Seth is gone."
The air is thick and tense and the room is too small but Ro doesn’t move.
"I know."
"I fucking hate him."
"I know."
"I fucking miss him."
"I know."
"You gonna leave?"
"Nope."
Dean feels. He feels lighter. He feels shiny and new and Seth is going to pay but..
But the roaring is gone and all Dean hears is Roman Reigns saving him.
"My hero."
"Go the fuck to sleep Dean."
He can feel the smile pressed into his neck and for the first time in days? Months? Dean Ambrose closes his eyes and doesn’t feel Seth Rollins because all that’s left in his veins is Roman Reigns.