Work Text:
One week. That's how long it's been since Dean has seen Bray. One week since he's told Bray to leave him alone. Dean huffs out a sigh as he sits on the bench in the locker room that he'd gotten for himself. He pulls out his tape and starts wrapping his heads in preparation for his upcoming Wrestlemania match.
Dean had figured that Bray would show back up around Raw since Dean had a segment with Brock but he didn’t. The segment had gone smooth, with Paul doing all the talking and Dean getting down to business. The wagon and weapons stacked in it was a message of what Dean had planned for the Beast at Wrestlemania. Dean was proud of himself for coming up with the idea for it though Brock had merely looked amused, standing in the middle of the ring watching Dean as he filled the wagon and head back up the ramp. Dean had expected Brock to hunt him down that night, almost wished the Beast would, but Brock hadn’t. Paul had apparently gotten Brock out of the arena before he could run into Dean. It killed Dean’s chances to prod more at the Beast.
When Smackdown rolled around, Dean and Erick actually had been booked for a match. If was the first member of the Wyatts that Dean had been in a week’s time and he was surprised when Erick showed up at his locker room door. It didn’t take long for Dean to figure out that Erick’s presence in his locker room was more out of habit than anything and perhaps the fact that the other Wyatt members weren’t around. No matter how much Dean pestered Erick with questions though, Erick didn’t same much. The only thing Dean was able to get from the bald man was a very quiet “Bray wasn’t angry” whisper before the man clammed up all together. And Dean didn’t get a chance to further question Erick more or even attempt to get him to lead Dean to Bray after their match because Erick and his things in the locker room simply disappeared, leaving Dean alone again.
Dean snorts, finishing up the last bit of the tape on his hands. He didn’t have time to ponder about his shitty week. He had to get his head in the game and on his match. It was in forty or so minutes and unless he’d not seen them or they snuck in, he was fairly sure Brock nor Paul had arrived yet.
--
A mile from the arena
“You know I just don’t know what these idiots are doing sometimes,” Brock’s attention is brought from the passing buildings and he looks at Paul questioningly. His advocate is sitting a couple inches from him in the back of his SUV. He’s looking down at his phone, reading an email or text that Brock hadn’t heard him receive. His face is scrunched in irritation as he continues without question, “I mean would it kill them to let us know a bit more earlier about changes to your match?”
“What are you talking about?” At Brock’s inquiry, Paul looks up.
“I’ve just received word that your’s and Mr. Ambrose’s Street Fight is going to be cut down to around ten to fifteen minutes due to either a miscalculation of match times or a sudden addition of a segment that will overlap the time amount. Really can the morons responsible for that make up their minds sooner?” Paul explains with a huff of annoyance, “How Vince tolerates this I will never understand.”
Brock narrows his eyes at the information, “Are they backing out on the amount that was promised me for this match as well?” If they were, which didn’t surprise Brock, then they’d be making a whole lot of changes if they even entertained the idea that he’d show up to do it for a penny less.
“They most certainly are not,” Paul, growls, already tapping away a reply on his phone, “That was a contractually agreed upon sum. Don’t you worry, they won’t back out. They can’t.”
Brock nods and turns back to the window. He doesn’t miss the stab of disappointment. The time cap on the match meant that he wouldn’t get to enjoy taking his time and manhandling Ambrose while watching the blond’s face contort in pleasure. That was going to be unfortunate but perhaps he’d have to catch Ambrose later, after Wrestlemania, to make up for it. His smile as they pull into the arena’s garage doesn’t go unnoticed.
--
Dean was furious. So fucking furious. He was storming all throughout the backstage area. He was looking for Brock Lesnar and he was going to beat his ass when he found him.
They’d just had their match not ten minutes ago, well it was a bullshit excuse for one anyway. Thirteen fucking minutes worth of absolute bullshit. They had had an agreement, him and Brock. Their match was supposed to steal the show on the grandest stage of them all. That had been the deal, the match had been secured and yet all Dean had gotten was screwed.
He doesn’t know it’s by sheer dumb luck or not, doesn’t really care either way, but he’s on his way to the parking garage when he runs into Paul Heyman. It’s not Brock but Dean wasn’t about to start complaining, it was good enough.
“Where the fuck is Brock?” The demand, spoke venomously, drew Paul’s attention up from his phone where he’d been replying to something.
Paul’s eyes narrow when they land on Dean and his face scrunches up in annoyance before he counters with a demand of his own, “And why, Mr Ambrose, would you be looking for my client?”
“You know damn well why!” Dean grits his teeth, “What the hell was that match?!”
“Exactly what it was.” Paul snaps, slipping his phone in his suit pocket while fixing Dean with a glare, “You wanted a match at Wrestlemania with my client that is exactly what you got.”
“Thirteen fucking minutes isn’t a damn match and you. Fucking. Know. it.” Dean moves until he’s right in Paul’s personal space, jabs a finger at Paul to punctuate the last bit of his sentence, “Brock and I had an agreement! We had a deal. We-”
“What you had does not matter.” Paul interrupts, “I want to put something very clear to you Mr. Ambrose. My client cares about one thing, and one thing only, and that is money. Whatever he and you, or rather what you thought you had with him in the past - the shared pleasantries and perhaps a bed or two - it meant nothing to my client, never has and it never will be anything other than business. The ultimate goal was the fat paycheck that he has since received for being here tonight and having that little match with you and I can’t help that you offered yourself up nicely to my client and perhaps thought there was something more when it wasn’t. You were manipulated, quite nicely I might add, Mr. Ambrose and thanks to you, my client is happily paid and off celebrating with people who deserve his time and I, myself, am also paid and glad to have done my job.” A grin crosses Paul’s face as he stands there and watches a surge of emotions cross Dean’s face before adding, “If you are perhaps looking for somewhere to direction your frustrations then might I point you to the nearest mirror. You have no one to be angry at but yourself. You had to have known somewhere in that vastly empty head of yours that my client wasn’t going to waste much time in beating you, he would gain nothing from it and that’s not how he operates. I’m still not sure why he even agreed to this little match with you to start with but it’s not my place to question what my client wants, I’m just an advocate after all, but if I had to guess as to why he did, it would be because he pitied you and wanted to give you your fifteen - or in this case thirteen - minutes of fame. Charity, Mr. Ambrose.”
“Shut up.” It was meant to be sharp, forceful, but it held no bite. Dean shook his head, taking several steps back. He’d heard enough of this bullshit - had heard enough of what he already knew. “Just shut the fuck up.” This time when he says it, he gets a bit of that bite in it to make it sound somewhat of a threat. “I’ve heard enough of your bullshit,” he turns away, starting to move away back toward where his locker room was, “just tell your damn client that if I ever see him again, I will beat his ass.”
“Hardly a threat Mr. Ambrose but I will inform him,” comes Paul’s smug reply and Dean doesn’t look back to see the smug little smile that’s appeared on Paul’s face.
--
What neither man notices, was the man standing in the shadows watching them. Erick Rowan watches Dean trudge off and watches Paul slip out the door to the parking garage arena before he slips from his hiding spot and heads for the basement area, to report back to the man who had sent him; Bray Wyatt.
--
An hour later Dean was tucked away in a bar, his fourth shot of straight vodka burning down his throat as he threw it back.
How Bray manages to find him is a mystery that Dean is sure that he’ll never solve. What he does know is that one minute he’s alone in the booth and the next, Bray is sliding in the seat opposite of him.
Bray’s got a look of sympathy in his eyes. It’s a look Dean doesn’t want. He didn’t want sympathy for his own stupidity, especially from Bray, who’d warned him. He should’ve - did to a certain extent but just didn’t want to believe it - known that he was being used from the beginning. He felt shitty, used. He felt much like he did back when Seth betrayed him and Roman, only this hurt a hell of a lot less, more of pissed him off and made him feel stupid.
“Don’t,” He warns, even though Bray hasn’t even said anything yet he wanted to keep it that way. He turns another shot up to his head, downs the liquid. He didn’t want to hear anything that Bray might have to say because he knew it would be the truth and he didn’t want to hear that right now.
To his credit, Bray doesn’t speak. He does reach out for the alcohol and moves it to the far end of the table, well out of Dean’s reach. It was no secret that Bray didn’t like for Dean to just lay to it so it wasn’t really a surprise that he’d done it. Dean narrows his eyes at the bearded man but he doesn’t voice a complaint. The fight in him had long since be subdued by Paul’s words.
They sit in silence, Dean busying himself with pretending Bray wasn’t there. He kept his eyes glued to his hands and the now empty shot glass. It didn’t work. He could feel Bray’s eyes trained on him, unwavering. It worked on his nerves, causing him to let out a long sight and finally glancing up to meet the unblinking gaze.
“Are you here to gloat?” He asks, quickly looking back down as he speaks. He doesn’t want to see Bray’s expression. Brock and his decisions wasn’t something that Dean wanted to talk about now - ever if he could get away with it - but he knew that Bray wasn’t going to leave until it was discussed and Bray could point out that he’d been right all along and if Dean had listened then maybe he wouldn’t be here now. But Dean just wasn’t in the mood to hear it. “Cuz I swear if you’re here to gloat then I don’t -”
“I’m not here to gloat little lamb,” Bray interrupts and suddenly there’s fingers underneath Dean’s chin, forcing his head up so Bray could see his face. Dean’s breath catches at the look Bray’s giving him, it’s soft, worried, and no where near what emotion Dean would have guessed Bray would be wearing. “I’m here because I’m concerned. I’m here because I want to know how you are, truthfully.”
A humorless laugh escapes before Dean could stop it and all of the night’s frustration, the very thing he was trying to drink away, comes crashing back down on him. He wrenches his head away from Bray’s touch and leans back, making sure to be well out of reach. Wordlessly he stretches and grabs the bottle that Bray had removed, pouring himself another shot. Bray makes a disapproving noise but doesn’t reach for the bottle again, a move that is more than alright by Dean. Throwing back the shot, Dean sets the glass down with a clink and hangs his head.
“I’m so stupid,” he starts, glaring at the hard wooden table as if it was the blame, “I’m so so stupid. I should’ve known, should’ve listened. You were right.” As much as Dean hated to admit that, it was the truth. Bray had tried to warn him and he hadn’t listened, had thought he had a deal. “As far for how I am, I feel like complete shit. I was played. I’m pissed. I don’t really want to talk about it either.”
Dean doesn’t really expect him too but Bray accepts that. It’s not until they leave the bar and head back to where ever Bray was staying that Dean learns that Bray knew what went on between him and Paul, knew the words that were said. Bray assured Dean later that night that he’d not have to worry about Brock again, that the Beast would be preoccupied for a while. How Bray knew for sure wasn’t something Dean wanted to address at the time and he just accepted it.
--
Brock’s pacing his room and when Paul walks in, he looks up expectantly, brows furrowing unhappily when he sees that Paul is alone.
“Where is he?” Brock doesn’t bother with elaborating, knows full and well that Paul knows who he’s asking about, when he had told Paul to specifically find Ambrose, bring him to the hotel when he came. Now he was worrying as to why Paul had shown up empty handed.
“I couldn’t find him,” was Paul’s answer as he sat on the couch, “I looked all over the arena and I didn’t see him. It seems as though he’d already left the arena.” Brock must have had a look on his face because Paul sighs and follows with, “I know you probably want to go out a look for him, bring him back, but listen I got some news that you’re going to want to hear.”
“Is that so?” Brock shakes his head, moves to sit on the couch and fix Paul with a stare that’s not exactly hard but isn’t far from it, it’s a look that promises bad things if the news that Paul has isn’t good enough.
“Ms. White called, the deal has gone through and has been okayed from both sides.”
Brock perks up at this, “Oh?”
Paul nods, “You’re going to have to leave right away, start training right away because they want you to be in UFC 200. They don’t have an opponent for you yet but they’re positive they will. You don’t have much time and we’ll have to utilize all the time we do have and put it toward training.”
“Well,” Brock ponders for a minute or two before he heaves out a long sigh, “it looks like my plans for tonight have been changed, not something I’m particularly happy with but something I can live with.” He pushes himself up and heads toward the bedroom, calling over his shoulder “Call the airport, tell them to get the jet ready. We’re heading to Minnesota.”
“Yes sir” Paul calls back, pulling out his phone and immediately dialing the number. He’s humming happily to himself with a victorious smile on his face as the phone starts to ring.