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The great thing about seedy strip clubs in East Bumfuck is that no one enforces the no-smoking rule. And god, was Dean Ambrose in need of a chain-smoking marathon. His focus was barely on the scrawny blonde on the stage, whose fake tits looked like two overinflated water balloons on her chest, all skin and ribs. Rather, as he held the slowly burning cigarette between his lips, he watched the ice slowly melt in his whiskey, the water leaving tiny trails as he swirled the cubes around in his glass. He would have rathered the whiskey itself be chilled, but, seedy strip club in East Bumfuck. He was lucky that he had simple tastes in whiskey, or else he'd absolutely be up shits creek with what he'd want.
This was an irritating constant in his life.
He didn't ask for much, he knew better than to ever want for anything. Possessions, as he said years ago under another name, only make you a target. And lord knows he never wanted to be a target, but that's life, he figured.
He just never expected the one to aim would be the one he once considered "his."
It was stupid. It was always stupid. And yet they'd wake up in some shitty hotel bed, whether it was the one they were staying at for the night, or one they found on the way to their destination. Quick texts, code names, and fevered kisses on questionable bed sheets.
God, he just wanted to crawl inside Seth's chest cavity, nestle himself in all his uncomfortable long-limbed glory between his lungs, use his heart as a pillow, let the cage of his ribs shield him from the world. Maybe if he forced all of himself inside Seth, and not just his dick (or his love), maybe that'd make Seth realize just how serious this was.
Or maybe he'd just scoop out another pound of flesh to serve to the golden boy on his platter of entitlement. Since that's what this was all about, right? Taking what he felt he was owed, at the risk of losing everyone else in the process.
He flicked the ashes of his cigarette away into the tray, taking a hard swallow of whiskey as the blonde on the stage finished her routine, and suddenly Dean wanted nothing more than to go home. Not to the hotel room, shit, not even to his empty ass apartment in Vegas. He wasn't quite sure what home was, to be honest with you, but he knew it was nowhere near him.
He did the next best thing.
-You free to chat?-
A few minutes pass, Dean swallowing the rest of his drink, before he gets a text back.
-Why, you gonna do something stupid?-
-Look who you're talking to, Drake.-
He once said that he'd trust Drake with his life, that if he had a gun and aimed it at his leg, he'd trust him to not hit a major artery. He still felt that trust. He prayed to, well, not God, but whoever that he never lost that trust in Drake. He'd lost a lot of people he cared about in his life, people he considered brothers, people he considered lovers, but if he ever lost Drake, he'd be lost.
-Listen, man. I know you. And I know how you react. Try not to do anything stupid, alright?-
-I won't.-
-Don't make promises you can't keep.-
Well, he was absolutely right on two things: he knew Dean better than most people, and he knew that Dean couldn't promise anything.
Especially not when his feet were leading him back to the shitty motel that he and Seth were meeting at.
A wave to the man at the desk, a quick swipe of a key card, and before Dean could even sigh out a "hey," there were lips forced against his, the scratch of Seth's beard across his skin.
This was a familiar dance, falling into the steps with an unnatural grace.
One. Clothes strewn upon the floor, some on the chair, and perhaps a pair of boxers on the lampshade.
Two. Tongues and fingers and whispered oaths against clammy skin, encouraging and filthy and devoid of any emotion except desire.
Three. The sound of skin against skin, creaking springs in the mattress, heavy breathing and gasps of pleasure, groans and grunts bit off into skin between teeth.
The steps get fumbled when Dean gasps out, "fuck, I love you," as he thrusts up hard into Seth, bitten-down nails scraping at his thighs as he releases all his frustration, all his anger, all his love.
Now would be an excellent time to crawl inside of himself and hide, shield himself from the glaring red target he has painted on himself, yet again.
Seth says nothing. And that's what hurts more. Not even an "I know." Just silence, ignoring once more how Dean feels, pushing himself up and off, heading towards the bathroom to clean up.
Dean's never felt any more hollow than he did in that moment. It was like every time he came, he emptied more and more of himself, his true self, into Seth, and got nothing in return. He was replacing his insides with smoke and alcohol and brittle silence, he had nothing left in him to give to Seth. Seth kept taking it, devouring it, spitting out the sinew and gristle and bone.
He starts to fall asleep, noting faintly the dip in the mattress as Seth lays down next to him, his skin warm and soft against his. He rolls over, an arm draping over Seth's middle, dreaming of a woman in gold pulling at Seth's arms, pulling him away from Dean's grasp.
He wakes up to cold sheets and an empty bed.