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Dean Ambrose.
Was a man of which Brock had never encountered before.
Stubborn and rebellious.
Never seemed to learn or perhaps just flat out refused to.
He spoke what was on his mind, with no fear of the repercussions that might follow. Could trash talk with the best of them. He made noise, made himself be heard. He was determined not to be drowned out and most times he wasn’t.
Temperamental and unpredictable.
Two qualities that were a deadly combination. One could never expect, never predict, what he might or might not do. He kept his opponents on their toes.
Brock wasn’t stupid. He’d never bought into the whole lunatic gimmick that WWE had Dean under. He knew Dean was a very bright man. Knew that the other man knew the wrestling world possibly better than some of the vets did. He studied every opponent that he had yet to face and remembered all the ones he had. His ring smarts were some of the best that Brock had ever seen.
.
And the guy wasn’t afraid to take a beating either.
Brock had honestly been in pure awe when Dean had eaten his F-5 and had played it off, even asked for another and ate it too and the same had been true for the other four or five that he’d taken.
He just kept getting to his feet. Refused to stay down.
That’s what started Brock’s fascination with Dean when this first began. Dean had wanted to face him, wasn’t afraid of him even after Reigns tried to explain what kind of a beating he’d take. Dean hadn’t seemed to care. That attitude is what had caused him to seek Dean out backstage that first time. He’d wanted to gauge the man, see if he really was as unaffected, unafraid as he claimed to be. He had never suspected that he’d end up pinning Dean to the wall capturing those lips with his own.
It still brought a smile to Brock’s face when he remembered the contract signing or even the week before when Dean had fearlessly stood before him, chin held high and defiant. He’s knocked the blond down but the man kept getting up, kept coming back. Refused to yield.
“I’m indestructible.”
Are the words Dean had used.
Indestructible.
Brock rolls that word around in his head as he runs on the treadmill. He’s at his residence in Minnesota, a nice little town house that he’d bought just because he had liked the area.
One his nights off from WWE, he liked to retreat here, rest and recharge.
He’s a couple hours in from his flight from Detroit and just around ten hours removed from having had Dean hard and fast asleep in the spot next to him. He continues to run on the treadmill, going into autopilot as he allowed his mind to flash back to the previous evening and night.
He’d been returning from his meeting. A meeting that in and of itself had been boring. Some journalist from some magazine that Brock had caught to name of when she’d introduced herself but soon forgot that Paul had scheduled him to meet with. Would be good publicity Paul had boasted when he told him about it. Brock didn’t particularly care either way but he’d decided that putting it off until a later date would mean that it would resurface later and become an inconvenience. He wouldn’t say that he’d been exactly thrilled that Paul had scheduled the thing to take place not long after his segment from Raw ended.
He had entertained thoughts about potentially seeing if he couldn’t hijack Dean before they could put him back in the ambulance for the second trip to the hospital in order to fill out the storyline and take the blond back to his hotel for some celebratory deal-sealing sex. Those thought were completely derailed with this meeting and as much as Brock hadn’t wanted to do it, he indulged the journalist, who upon meeting and greeting was sure had been the same lady that had been asking for an interview for months. They had sat down at this fancy restaurant and he had answered all of her questions and largely paid no mind to her chatter after they’d all been answered. He was polite even though his thoughts were on the dirty blond man that would probably be getting discharged from the hospital around this time. Brock had nearly let out a sigh of relief when the meeting was up and she wrapped up her interview and he was able to say his goodbyes and leave.
On his way across town, Brock thought about stopping by the hotel he knew Dean was staying at and seeing if he couldn’t catch Reigns away. But right as he was on the cusp of making a decision to do that it dawned on him that Reigns had been scheduled to have surgery on his face. He recalled Dean had mentioned something about that this morning over breakfast and Paul had commented on it. He guessed that’s where Dean would be at.
When he gotten back to his hotel and parked in his reserved parking spot in the parking garage, he locked up his SUV and headed around to the front of the building as opposed to the parking garage entrance. He was in no hurry to return to the quiet room. He never expected to see Dean Ambrose sitting outside of the front of his hotel, alone, with his head bowed and his fists clenched. The man looked all kinds of angry or upset. He was also getting looks from many of the other hotel patrons though he paid them no mind - Brock wasn’t even sure he was aware of the looks he was getting. The way he was postured though, it didn’t really sit all that well with Brock. It bothered him, seeing Dean like that. He slowly made his way over, stood right beside the man and waited until he noticed him.
Dean eventually did and when he spoke, thinking that it was someone other than Brock, his angry voice had been thick with something that Brock could not clearly identify, regret or grief, could’ve been either of those two or it could have been something else entirely. Brock wasn’t sure but he knew that it sounded nothing like Dean. Even the anger that burned in those blue eyes when the man looked up wasn’t burning as brightly as normal.
Curse words tumbled from those lips, stopping mid word when Dean noticed who was standing there. Brock didn’t miss the brief flash of relief that appeared in those blue eyes before it was washed away and they were guarded. It certainly quirked Brock’s curiosity but he didn’t question it, instead he inquired why Dean was sulking outside his hotel.
Dean explained that he hadn’t been sulking but Brock didn’t believe that for one second. He had been and it was plain as day that he had been. Someone had said something to him, Brock was sure of that. Dean confirmed it when he started talking about the receptionist and the no loitering policy.
That was complete bullshit. There wasn’t a no loitering policy at the hotel. Brock hadn’t voiced that fact and instead had invited the man in, watching in amusement as Dean turned into the smuggest bastard on the planet. Damn near childlike as he had shot the stunned and obviously seething receptionist a bird from across the whole of the lobby on their way to the elevators. Brock hadn’t said a word but he did narrow his gaze at the receptionist over Dean’s head, daring him to say anything.
Dean’s mood had lifted greatly by the time they’d gotten off on the fifth floor. He turned into the chatter box that he normally was, grinning from ear to ear. Brock had found himself enjoying the endless chatter about how awesome that setup had been for their match. He’d chuckled when Dean called him a clever bastard for the initial attack and laughed when Dean gave him shit about the note he’d left for him at the hospital.
Brock’s sure he heard “I hate hospitals” six time or more during the whole time Dean had been talking about it.
They’d eaten steak. Brock hadn’t been particularly hungry since he ate at the hotel but as soon as they’d gotten in the room, Dean’s stomach had given a rather loud growl. Brock had asked if the man ever ate. Dean had grinned sheepishly and murmured something about having ran out of time before the ride was supposed to arrive so he could leave for Raw while Brock went to grab the hotel phone to call down to catering.
They’d eaten in a comfortable silent, both engrossed in some UFC Fight Night Live event that Brock had DVR’d earlier the previous day. Dean had nearly accidently spilled his beer that had been ordered along with the food when he’d gotten so into one match and it ended with a total knock out on the guy he hadn’t been rooting for. Brock had laughed at the embarrassed look that had cross Dean’s face before he leaned in and captured those lips right in the middle of Dean telling him to fuck off.
From there, they’d ended up in the bedroom, totally naked with Dean pinned to the mattress on his back, wanton moans falling from his lips as Brock drove into him. Once sated and even more exhausted than they had been before, Brock had just rolled onto his side and pulled Dean back until Dean’s back was flush against his chest. He had placed gentle, lazy kisses along the back of Dean’s neck and shoulders - the exact places that had hit the limo - before wrapping his arms tighter around Dean’s torso and burying his face in the pillow.
Dean had grown still, stone still. He didn’t object to Brock’s actions but he didn’t really accept them either. Brock would feel him tense against him like acts of kindness from him - or maybe even acts of kindness in general - were something that Dean never expected. Brock had said nothing and Dean remained silent and over time began to relax. Eventually his breathing slowly evened out and he went slack in Brock’s arms, telling Brock that he’d fallen asleep.
Brock had closed his eyes then, allowed himself to start drifting off. Before he slipped into the full lull of sleep, he felt Dean shift beside him, pressing further back into him and nuzzling against the arm that was being used as a pillow. Brock couldn’t help to smile and slip his head down, resting his chin against the top of Dean’s head.
“Incoming call from Paul Heyman”
The roboticized voice on his phone sounding minutes before the phone itself started ringing pulls him from his thoughts. He hops off the treadmill, reaching for the device, answering,
“Paul.”
“Good morning Brock.” comes through the speaker cheerfully. “I just heard back from the journalist. She said that the interview turned out well, extremely well in fact! The article should be published within the next couple of weeks and the publisher is sending up a copy.”
“Great,” Brock’s voice lacks all the enthusiasm that Paul’s does. He really doesn’t care. He knew Paul was calling him for another reason, the man wouldn’t bother him to waste time about some interview they knew he cared little about. “Is that all you called to tell me?”
“No. Not at all,” Paul says quickly before clearing his throat. “I’ve just heard from Mr. McMahon and, well, you’ve been given Raw off.”
“What?”
That was the last thing Brock expected to hear. His grip tightened on the phone. His unoccupied hand clenching into a tight fist.
“Yes…” Paul’s voice came through nervous, hesitant, “I was told that due to Mr. Reigns being out for a couple of weeks as a result of that surgery, they wanted to use Mr. Ambrose as a filler to keep the storyline alive so to speak and as Mr. Reign’s closest ally… you can see why Mr. Ambrose was a good choice.”
“Of course,” Brock’s voice was nothing more than a growl. He was furious. Vince could’ve found someone else. “I do hope you informed Vince how unhappy we were with this decision.”
“Yes of course I did!” Paul exclaims, “but he wasn’t having it. Said we shouldn’t have any problem rebuilding the momentum in your favor again.”
No. They wouldn’t. That wasn’t the point though.
After ending the call with Paul, Brock considers his options. A night off didn’t necessarily mean that he couldn’t show up to Raw. He could let himself be seen. Remind them all that he was still a factor. Be a backstage presence that wouldn’t be ignored. He could keep an eye on Dean, watch the altercation between him and Hunter.
Or.
He could just stay where he’s at. Rest and relax. Go out with a drink or two with some people. Catch up on training. The idea was nice and all but it wasn’t one that he wanted to entertain.
He liked the former option and so he found himself booking a flight for Sunday. Even called the hotel in Nashville that he usually stayed at and booked a room. Once he’d finished with his arrangements, he got back on the treadmill and ran a few more miles.
He’d show up at Raw. Be a presence there. Maybe see if he couldn’t get Dean alone since Reigns was going to be a factor.
He licks his lips. There was something addicting about Dean Ambrose that Brock just couldn’t get over.
“I’m indestructible.”
-
Dean lets out a sigh of relief as he steps backstage, back behind the curtain and away from the crowds eyes.
Live Events.
They were fun but damn if they weren’t draining, especially since his match hadn’t been scheduled until the later part of the show and he had a slight to catch bright and early the next morning. Six thirty! Really who scheduled flights for that early anyway?
But he had to be in Nashville, Tennessee for Raw and getting there early and settling in was better than getting there late and struggling to get everything settled before going to the arena.
Dean was actually looking forward to it as he headed for the locker room. He wanted to see what else Heyman and Lesnar had planned to help spruce up this rivalry between him and Brock. It wasn’t like it needed any more sprucing but everything helped. Anything to keep the fans interested.
“Ambrose!”
Dean stopped dead in his tracks as the voice of William Regal called out to him. He turned, waited impatiently for the older man to walk up to him from down the hallway. He raises a brow questioningly, silently asking him what the hell he wanted.
“Stephanie called. Wanted me to inform you that there has been a slight change of plans.” William explained in his proper fucking English and Dean felt a surge of annoyance at what was coming out of his mouth, “Since it appears that Mr. Reigns is going to be out for a few weeks to allow for him to heal. To keep the feud fresh, the Authority wants you to have a brief feud with Triple H.”
“Of fucking course they do,” Dean snorted, glaring at the wall at Regal’s back, “Have they actually ran this past Heyman or Brock yet? Cuz I don’t think either would be happ-”
“They did my boy,” Regal interrupted, “Mr. Heyman was assured that it wouldn’t be a problem to rebuild the momentum again. Mr. McMahon had already made the decision anyway. ”
“Right.” Dean turns then, disappearing into the locker room, where he immediately shoves his duffel off the bench and lets out a growl of anger.
Raw - Nashville, TN
Dean was in a foul dont-fuck-with-me mood. His flight had gotten delayed and it had been late Sunday afternoon before it even left for Nashville. A fifty minute flight normally had taken nearly a day because of some airport - sorry we booked to many people on this fight and now have to rebook you to a much later flight- bullshit. Dean could’ve probably hitched a ride and gotten there faster. He hadn’t gotten to his hotel until very late and nearly didn’t get his room reserved before the hotel itself ran out of rooms. He hadn’t gotten much sleep because some college kids had wanted to party all night a few doors down from where his and he was still sore, the house show event that he had been at Saturday hadn’t helped his already bruised and battered body.
It didn’t help that he had little time to actually rest when he got to the arena. He had been scheduled to interrupt Hunter’s opening segment. Luckily no one backstage tried to engage him in conversation. They all seemed to sense his mood and stayed clear of him. He did catch a glance of Luke Harper watching him but he paid it no mind, Luke liked to watch people when he was waiting on Bray to come back from wherever the fuck he was.
Dean focused on finding himself a locker room to commandeer for the night. He by passed a few empty ones that were close to where everyone was working and heads further back to the back of the arena. He did not want to be close to anyone.
It comes time for his segment and he goes out there to the crowd cheering his name. A match with Hunter at Roadblock for the title. A way for Hunter to keep from sitting on his ass and doing nothing while Roman recovers. It’s really all there is. Dean doesn’t believe for one minute that they’ll actually let him headline Wrestlemania with the belt. Not after he’s already got a match. Still the end of the segment leaves him fuming.
Hunter makes a match. Dean vs Alberto Del Rio. Dean nearly groaned when Hunter made it. He hurt like hell and a match was the last thing he wanted. But he didn’t let it show, he put up his confident bravado.
Once he was backstage though, he wall all but stomping back to his locker room in order to get ready for his match. His pain momentarily shelved as anger surged through him and he muttered curses under his breath. By the time he was at his claimed room, he was limping pretty heavily again from putting too much weight on his leg.
He shoved open the door to the locker room, not even caring about the echoing bang that echos around when the door hits the wall. He limps over, leaving the door standing wide open, to the one single chair that was in the room. He sat down heavily and started rummaging through his bag for his ring tape.
“Fucking shit,” He cursed as he dropped the tape. His hands were shaking, whether from his anger or the pain he wasn’t sure. He glared as the roll of white tape rolled away from him. He hangs his head, letting out a breath. His hands balled into fists and he gritted his teeth. The urge to just trash the room and its single chair was rising. Fuck authority. Fuck Stephanie and Hunter too for not leaving his fucking storylines alone for once.
A frustrated noise leaves his lips. He needed to get up and retrieve his tape.
“Here.”
Dean’s head snaps up, mouth hanging open. His anger is momentarily forgotten when he takes in the man standing before him. Brock. And he holding out the roll of tape for Dean to take.
Dean blinks before reaching up to take it, mumbling out, “Thanks.”
“Looks like Hunter got to you,” Brock commented, straightening back up. He held out his other hand, a couple ice packs in it, “Stopped by the trainers on my way in and snagged you these. Figured you were probably going to need them.”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded, reaching up to rub his bad shoulder lightly, “You didn’t happen to grab a bottle of aspirin too while you were there did you? Cause by the end of the night I’m gonna need them too.” He pulls off his shirt, grimacing at the black and blue bruises that dotted his skin. Granted most of them were from Brock’s attacks, in fact Dean’s sure all of them were from Brock.
“No I didn’t. Think I got some at my hotel though. Can give them to you later” Brock’s eyes rake up and down the newly exposed skin. He walks forward to kneel in front of Dean, reaching out to lightly run fingers over the bruises. “Perhaps I should’ve grabbed bandages.”
Dean shudders at the featherlight touch, eyes slipping closed. He ignores the first part of what Brock said. The way the man sounded so confident that Dean would go with him after Raw. Dean knew he probably would but a part of him wanted to fight that confidence that Brock seemed to have. A low moan passes through his lips instead as Brock’s lips brush his own.
“Get away from him, now!”
A malicious snarl filled with anger rings out around the room, startling both men.
Brock is back to his feet in seconds, turning to face the door. He’s tensed and ready to fight. Dean is frozen to the spot, eyes widening as he stares at the door. He feels a chill run through him.
Standing in the doorway, flanked by Erick, Luke, and Braun, is a pissed off Bray Wyatt.