Chapter Text
February 21, 2016 - Post Fastlane
Locker Room 10:50 PM
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Every piece of movable furniture there was in the small space was now uprooted from its original resting spot and was now scattered across the room. In the middle of the carnage stood a heaving Dean Ambrose. The mess, a result of Dean's failed attempts to win and go on to face Triple H at Wrestlemania.
“Fuck!” He kicked out, sending a small decorative piece across the room where it landed with a loud thud.
He had lost – fair and fucking square, clean as fucking day, and Roman was the one that was going on. Dean had been left, as he'd put it earlier that night, standing on the side of the road watching the tail lights disappear.
He was glad for Roman. Had been the first to congratulate his brother and his best friend before he had been drug off to do interviews about his big win. Someone had to do it since it seemed like the fans would never get behind him. He could still hear their boos when Roman's hand had been raised as the victor.
Although he was glad for Roman, he was still pissed. Pissed at the booking cause it was shit. Literally had made him drop his Intercontinental Title for nothing.
Dean glanced around the room, feeling the anger starting to bubble back up at the thought. He had to leave. Had to get away for a while so he could clear his head, let the anger fade.
He didn't want to wait for Roman to come back. Even if he wasn't mad at the man, he still didn't want to be around him and see the way his eyes shined with victory. He knew he'd be bitter and that was something they agreed on that wouldn't ever happen.
So Dean gathers his duffel bag and leaves the room. He drops his bag off in the backseat of Roman's car where he knew it would safely get to Detroit and starts walking.
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February 21, 2016
Post Fastlane – 12:30am
Dean sat in the darkest corner he could find in some dingy little bar that he’d stumbled across while he was walking. He decided that he would dip in for some whiskey and so here he sat – shot glass held in one hand, bottle of Jack Daniels sitting by the other. He rolls the empty glass between his fingers, staring down at the table. Every so often he'd refill it and toss it back. The burn of the whiskey felt good. Helped to ease the loss some.
Luckily the place wasn’t busy in the slightest and the other patrons hadn’t even batted an eye at Dean when he had walked through the door. No one here recognized him and that was just fine by him. He was in no mood to put up with fans asking for autographs or pictures and he sure wasn't up for talking about what happened tonight. He wanted to left alone, wanted to sulk for just a little while longer before pushing himself up and trudging on. His anger was slowly starting to die down – just smoldering embers now compared to the raging fire it had been. He actually felt a ting of guilt for trashing the locker room and splitting like he had. He hadn't thought about Roman potentially having to clean up the mess when he returned from all his interviews and post congratulation stuff. He also hadn't thought to grab his phone from his duffel before depositing it in Roman's car so if the man tried to call him, he'd get nothing but the voice mail.
It was probably for the best tonight. Dean knew that Roman probably wanted to celebrate, hell who wouldn't after a win that put them on the road to Wrestlemania? Dean also knew that Roman wouldn't have celebrated if he was around because the man didn't want him feeling any worse than he was. Roman's considerate like that. He won't do anything that might intentionally upset Dean. Because he cared, sometimes too much, but he still cared all the same.
Movement out the corner of his eye distracts Dean momentarily. Someone was coming toward his table. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge them, sending a silent hope that they would either get the hint that he didn't want to be bothered or were just passing by. That hope was short lived as who ever it was walked right on up and slid into the bench directly across the table from him. Dean didn't spare a glance up before he barked out angrily,
“Fuck off would you? 'm not in the mood tonight.”
“Hello Ambrose.”
His head snapped up at the sound of Brock Lesnar’s voice. Sure enough the man was sitting directly across from him smirking. He was wearing a hoodie, street clothes, and he was surprisingly alone, his advocate was no ever to be seen.
How the fuck did Lesnar find him? Why the fuck was Lesnar here?
Dean narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck do you want Lesnar?” he asked harshly, spitting the last word. He was in no mood to put up with this. None what so ever.
Brock didn’t answer him. Instead he reached over, plucking the shot glass that Dean still held loosely in his hand and grabbing the bottom of Jack. Before Dean could even voice a complaint at the action, the man had filled the shot glass full of the amber liquid and thrown it back.
“The fuck are you doing?” Dean growled, snatching the shot glass and bottle of Jack back to his side of the table. He glares across the table, “If you wanna drink so bad then go 'n buy your fucking own.”
He watches as Brock huffs out what sounds like a laugh before sliding out of the bench and walking off. Dean doesn't see where he goes – doesn't care – and just thinks 'good riddance' before he wipes off the rim of his shot glass and fills it again. He's got the shot raised to his lips and is about to down it when Brock returns and slides back opposite of him with a beer in his hand.
Dean lowers his hand, eyes flicking from the beer to Lesnar's face. He raises an eyebrow in question and watches Lesnar bring his beer to his lips. The fucker actually went a bought his own. They sit in silence.
Lesnar is looking around the room, eyes scanning the various things hanging from the wall. Dean had noticed them earlier when he'd first walked in but had paid no attention to them. He still didn't pay any attention to them. His focus was on the man sitting opposite of him. The man, who just two hours ago, was beating his and Roman's asses before being power bombed through two tables by Roman and then taken out by a steel chair courtesy of Dean himself. The man that was just sitting across from his casually like it was something that they did.
“What are you doing?”
The question brings Lesnar's attention back to him. The man raises his beer, tipping it toward Dean.
“Having a drink.” he points the top of his beer to the shot glass, “Same as you.”
“You know what I mean,” Dean growls gesturing almost frantically between the two of them and the table, “Why are you here?”
“Maybe I wanted to have a drink with you.” Brock answers, laughing quietly when Dean shoots him a look of disbelief. “I was actually just leaving the arena to head for Detroit. Paul's going to meet me there. Saw this place, figured it wouldn't be swarming with fans and decided to stop in for a quick drink.” He shrugs one massive shoulder, “Good way to wash down that bullshit of a loss anyway.”
At the mention of the Triple Threat Dean feels himself tensing, feels the anger start to flame up again. He quickly lifts his shot and downs it before reaching for the bottle to pour another. Second shot down and Dean is glaring down at the table instead of looking at Lesnar. He didn't want to talk about the match. Not now. Not at all. But he glances up at Lesnar to find the man looking at him calmly and suddenly he's wondering why Brock isn't fucking tearing the place down.
“How can you say it like that? Shouldn't you be fucking steaming too?” He dares to ask because he just has to know.
Brock grins, taking a swig of his beer before answering, “Oh believe me I'm absolutely pissed about how that match ended. But I don't let my losses get to me. I don't let them linger long because they'll start eating away at you,” He points a finger to Dean, “Just like it's eating away at you right now,” when Dean opens his mouth to do just that, he adds, “ and don't try to lie Ambrose, I can see it plain as day.” Dean scowls but doesn't try to argue. Silence falls between them again and lingers until Lesnar breaks it with a smirk, “Besides, it's not like there aren't other roads to Wrestlemania.”
Dean rolls his eyes at that and leans back to cross his arms over his chest and grumble out, “Yeah for you maybe. Some of us don't have an advocate to pull strings and suck dick to get us what we want. Some of us have one shot and if we don't get it then we're out.”
Brock snorts, “Vince and Stephanie listen to Paul because Paul knows what brings in the ratings. It's hardly pulling strings or sucking dick. It's business. Plain and simple. That being said, since I ran into you, I have a proposition that I want you to consider.”
“What is it sucking you dick?” Dean questions folding both arms on the table and huddles down, “Because I hate to break it to you but I'm not going to suck your dick.”
“As tempting as that thought is and as persuasive as I can be, I highly doubt you'd be able to keep up that resolve for long Ambrose but that's not it.” Brock sets his beer on the table and sits up straight. He's all business now. “I assume that you still want to go to Wrestlemania correct?”
“Fuck yeah I do,” Dean sighs out in frustration, “but wanting to go and actually being booked to go are two different fucking things! And last time I checked I lost, we lost, or did you forget that already?”
“I haven't but apparently you forgot what I said earlier, there is more than one road to Wrestlemania.” Brock says, gesturing between himself and Dean, “And what's stopping us from stealing the show?”
“Huh?” Dean blinks in confusion and stares at Brock like he's grown another head before repeating, “Steal the show?”
Brock nods. “If you're interested, I'll get Paul to arrange something.”
“He can do that?”
“Oh the man has a way with words if you weren't aware.” Brock chuckles, “So you interested?”
“Yeah!,” Dean grins, “Hell yeah!”
“Good,” Brock reaches over to grab the bottle of Jack and pours the shot glass full before nudging it to Dean. When Dean lifts it up, he clinks the top of his beer against it and they both drink. Dean empties the shot and Brock drains the contents of his beer.
“I'll have a word with Paul when I get to the hotel and he'll set it up.” He starts sliding off the bench and stands, reaching a hand out to Dean, “Well Ambrose it was nice talking business.” Dean reaches out to shake it. “See you in Detroit” He turns and starts to leave.
Dean watches him walking off, chewing on his bottom lip. He hesitates for maybe half a second before he's sliding out of his bench and going after Lesnar, leaving his Jack there. He catches up with the man outside by a black SUV.
“Hey!” At his call, Brock turns around with keys in hand. He arches an eye brow. Dean shuffles a bit before he asks sheepishly, “Would... uh.. you wouldn't mind giving me a ride to Detroit would ya? I kind of have no way of getting there besides walking.”
Brock smirks. “Sure,” he says unlocked the doors on the SUV, “Get in.”
The bastard actually waits until Dean has gotten comfortably into the passenger seat and they're headed out of town before he reaches over to start palming Dean through his jeans, adding, “And since I'm giving you a lift I think I deserve to get a little something in return and from our earlier conversation think I want to find out what other things that mouth of yours can do besides run.”
“You son of a fucking bitch.” It's a strained, breathless growl as Dean's hips buck up against the unrelenting pressure.
February 22, 2016 - 1:20 AM