A/N: My first attempt at Ambrollins. This story has a strange name, but I think it's appropriate. Here comes the scientific part:

Amygdala [uh-mig-duh-luh]

The amygdala is an almond shaped mass of nuclei located deep within the temporal lobe of the brain. It is involved in many of our emotions and motivations, particularly those that are related to survival. The amygdala is also involved in the processing of emotions such as fear, anger and pleasure. It deals with arousal, responses associated with fear, emotion, hormonal secretions and memory.

Please review and let me know if I should continue with this. Enjoy!

Dean pulled his leather jacket closer to his body in an attempt to fight off the evening chill. The wind had picked up noticeably, whipping stray leaves about him as he strolled along. He glanced up at the town clock, its face glowing in the darkness, when it announced 11pm with a deep, ominous gong that reverberated through the quiet night.

The streets were empty. All of the sensible people were tucked away in their warm homes, either watching the news or snugly bedded down for the night. He briefly wished for the same thing, to rest his head on a comfortable pillow, or feel an arm wrapped around him, but he quickly pushed the thought away. Why dwell on the things that he couldn't have? It would only make him miserable.

He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to keep the blood flowing. He'd always had terrible circulation, and walking outside on an autumnal night really wasn't helping any. He figured he had another hour before he could head back to his place and attempt to sleep. His roommates should have settled into a whiskey-soaked stupor by then.

It had become a nightly ritual, walking the streets until he could be assured of peace and slip back into the house for a few hours rest. Snow Oaks was an innocuous little town, quirky in some respects, but very much a protective community. Protective of their own, that is. Dean was a loner, a drifter, moving from one place to the next without putting down roots, and never looking back when his time there drew to an end.

But here…this place felt different. Sure, he was still on the periphery of Snow Oaks' society, but his existence wasn't entirely unpleasant. He liked the size - it wasn't teeming with people. It was secure - he could walk the streets undisturbed without having to worry for his safety. For the most part, people left him to his own devices. He appreciated that.

He approached the old Town Hall, a sturdy brick building that housed Snow Oaks' local government offices. He ran his finger over the smooth golden plaque that adorned the entrance wall: 'Snow Oaks, Established 1723'.

He smiled to himself, thinking about the name. It hadn't snowed in Snow Oaks since 1963. Well, that's what the local newspapers said. He had spent hours poring over reams of microfiche at the library when he first rolled into town. He liked to get properly acquainted with a place when he arrived, to immerse himself in its origins and history, to really get a feel for the locality.

Who would have guessed that he was a bit of a history buff? Certainly not his high school teachers, who wrote him off as a crack baby, a ticking time-bomb destined to follow in his fucked-up parent's footsteps. He hadn't been a crack baby, his Mom had somehow managed to abstain for nine months, but that didn't matter to them. Appearances mattered. And appearances indicated that he would end up as they did, consumed by addiction and controlled by his demons.

He shook his head to clear his melancholic thoughts, turned away from the plaque and resumed his ambling.

By 12.30am, Dean was more than ready to head back to the house. The street he lived on was on the west side of town, just beyond the reach of the affluent suburbs. Trees of every variety brooded morosely over the sidewalks, attempting to escape their properties, reflective of the mood of every single inhabitant. It wasn't a great spot, but it was all he could afford right now. Besides, it wasn't like he was unfamiliar with the underbelly of a nice town.

He kicked at a squashed Coke can that lay in his path, tapping it along the ground until he neared his house. He was almost at the gate when he heard a faint voice call his name. Dean managed to suppress a groan before turning around to face the person.

An elderly woman stood in front of him, her white wispy hair flying around her head like some strange halo in the night air. She clutched a ratty floral bathrobe to her thin frame, her milky blue eyes wide and almost unseeing. Dean knew better. Mystic Maggie, as she was known in the neighbourhood, saw everything.

"Dean," she repeated, a pale bony hand extending to grab at the lapel of his jacket. "Watch your money. You must be careful with your money."

He patted her hand awkwardly, surprised by how warm she was. "I am, Maggie," he assured her. "I take good care of it, and I save."

She shook her heard, not satisfied with his response. "No, Dean. You need to be extra vigilant. I know you're not earning a lot, so you must be careful with the money that you do have. There are thieves everywhere. How is your employment situation?"

He didn't want to discuss his personal finances…or lack thereof...on the sidewalk after midnight. But she was harmless enough. Dean placed a hand on her shoulder and began to steer her toward her property next door. "Let's get you inside, Maggie. It's too cold for you to be out here. I'm being good with my money, I promise. Work comes in dribs and drabs, but you know me, I'll do whatever it takes to keep my head above water."

She nodded, "Good, good. That construction work won't last long. I know of someone who could help you. He lives at 613 Hawthorne Avenue. He accepts visitors on Friday evenings from 9pm onwards. Go there tomorrow, Dean. You'll need him."

Dean offered his elbow as they ascended her porch steps, waiting until she unlocked the door and stepped inside. "You take care of yourself, Maggie."

"Don't forget what I said, Dean," she replied, pointing a finger at him, her face solemn. "613 Hawthorne Avenue. He has what you need."

Dean nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets, unsure of how to respond to that. "Uh, thanks Maggie. Goodnight."

Despite feeling exhausted just a few minutes ago, Dean now doubted that he would get any sleep that night.

The spray of hot water on his body felt fucking incredible. It was a luxury tonight. His roommates had decided to search for the answers to their problems at the bottom of a bottle and fucked off to a local dive bar. All of the hot water in the house was his. And he deserved it.

Dean had been right. He hadn't been able to sleep much after his encounter with Maggie. She had been so serious, so sure that he should keep a watchful eye on his money. That he would somehow end up at 613 Hawthorne Avenue. The address had been etched in his memory with indelible ink.

Dean had heard mumbled stories about Maggie. That she was a lonely old widow who just wanted company. That she had taken a lot of shit back in the sixties and it had messed up her mind permanently. That she was a goddamned psychic. That she preyed upon the sympathy of young dudes in an attempt to hop on their dicks.

To him, she was harmless. A little kicked in the head, sure, but who wasn't?

Even bearing that in mind, her words had niggled at him all night and kept him from the sleep that he needed. He dragged his ass out of bed at 6:30 that morning and spent the next twelve hours lifting heavy shit and keeping his mouth shut on the construction site. The job security was tenuous at best, but it covered this month's rent. He preferred to keep his head down and get the work done, not bitch and whine like the other guys.

He had stashed his wages, paid in cash, in his usual hiding spot – his pillowcase – before stepping under the spray of water that was currently gliding down his body, little droplets catching in the ridges of muscle that years of heavy labour had afforded him.

He grabbed the bar of soap and lathered up his body, massaging his aching muscles as he went. He'd always liked shower time, ever since he was a kid. He could detach himself from the world for a little while and dream up stories that made him happy. Call it childish, but it got him through his day.

Tonight, he was wistful for a place of his own. Nothing fancy, just somewhere safe and warm and quiet. His mind was so busy, he needed a space of his own to decompress. The current gang of animals that he lived with ensured that he didn't get much peace.

"Ambrose! Get out here now!"

Dean's head snapped toward the door, where an obviously heavy fist was thumping on the thin wood.

"Who's there?" He called out, shutting the water off and hurriedly wrapping a towel around his hips.

"It's Santa Claus. Who do you think it is? Now get out here and pay your rent."

Dean's eyes narrowed. His asshole landlord had a habit of showing up and demanding payment whenever it suited him. He provided shitty accommodation and facilities, but expected his tenants to be grateful for the privilege.

Dean pulled open the door, finding the red-faced troll waiting for him with a sly smile. He stretched out an open palm, "Pay up Ambrose, or you're out."

Dean ran a hand through his wet hair and took a deep breath, "Rent's not due until tomorrow, Heyman. You can't keep changing the rules like this."

"Oh, Mr. Ambrose, I think you'll find that I can," Heyman said smugly. "Who else is going to provide lodgings for the poor unfortunates of Snow Oaks? And at such a reasonable price, too? Now hand it over."

He had Dean there. He couldn't exactly be choosy right now.

"Fine," Dean sighed, pushing into his room and emptying out the pillowcase. He felt around on the sheet, finding nothing. Weird. He flicked on his lamp and saw that the bedspread was devoid of cash. He rubbed at his eyes, thinking that his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. Where the fuck was the money? He had put it there less than an hour ago.

"I'm waiting," Heyman taunted from the doorway, clasping his hands in front of his protruding belly.

"I seem to have…misplaced my rent," Dean stated evenly, his brain grasping for an answer.

"You're out," Heyman retorted, now examining his cuticles. "I want you gone by midnight."

"No, no, wait! I know I haven't been here all that long, but I've never been late with rent. I'm reliable. Those other animals that you put me with? They're probably responsible for this."

Heyman pondered that statement for a moment, making a movement of agreement with his mouth.

"I'll have it by noon tomorrow. Just give me a chance. Please."

Heyman's beady eyes sized him up carefully, his lips pursed. "Alright. I'll be back at noon. You better have it by then…plus the ten percent inconvenience charge for putting me through this extra fuss."

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, nodding stiffly instead of grabbing the landlord by the throat like he wanted to. Heyman offered an over the top cursty before taking his leave.

Dean sank down on to the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. How the fuck was he going to pony up that kind of money by tomorrow? His roommates had to have nabbed his cash the second he stepped into the shower. And to think he had been happy that they were off to drink their non-existent woes away. All of their problems were self-made, they were just too dumb to solve them.

He spent a good half hour going over the problem in his head. He was fucked. Maggie had been right – thieves were everywhere. For whatever reason, he had never expected his roommates to steal from him, even though he probably should have.

The distant sound of the town clock brought him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 10pm.

613 Hawthorne Avenue.

The thought crept into his mind as if someone had just whispered it to him. He was desperate enough. It was his only option. What had Maggie said? That the guy accepted visitors from 9pm on Fridays. With luck, he'd let Dean in at this hour.

After quickly throwing on his uniform of jeans, a t-shirt and his old leather jacket, he took to the streets with renewed purpose, trying to track his mental map of the town. He took a few wrong turns, meaning that it was closer to eleven by the time he rocked up in front of a large three storey Victorian on the fancy side of town.

He threw a look over his shoulder, suddenly feeling uneasy. Dean didn't do well when surrounded by the trappings of wealth. He was completely out of his comfort zone in a place like this. But fuck it, he had to suck it up and deal with it if he wanted to still have a place to stay by morning.

He pressed the ornate doorbell and ran a hand through his damp hair. Wiping his palms on his thighs, he tried to keep his cool when the door suddenly shifted open. A woman with long dark hair, glossy red lips and doe eyes greeted him. She was dressed to kill in a short black dress that clung to her body, revealing her more than ample cleavage. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm here about the job opening?" Maggie had been scant on the details, but he figured there would be plenty of odd jobs to do in an old house like this. Dean was good with his hands. He could handle pretty much anything that was thrown his way.

The woman ran her eyes up and down the length of his body, openly scrutinising him. Glancing back up at him, she smiled and gestured him inside. "Of course, come on in."

Dean nodded and stepped over the threshold, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. This place was fancy as fuck. Well polished dark wood everywhere, real expensive looking antiques - everything about it screamed money.

"Oh, he is gonna love you," the woman murmured behind him.

"What was that?" he asked, turning around, confused by the smile on her face.

"I said follow me right this way. Mr. Rollins is receiving guests in his study tonight. There are a couple guys in front of you. I'm Nikki, by the way."

"No problem, I can wait. Uh, I'm Dean."

Nikki led him to a long hallway that was lit by old-fashioned candelabras affixed to the walls. He took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs, furtively looking around at the other men who were waiting. They were all dressed in suits, some shabby, others more stylish. Fuck. Maybe he should have dressed up for this. Even though it was unorthodox, it was still a job interview. He tugged on the sleeves of his jacket, as if the scars in the leather would suddenly disappear.

"Can I get you a drink, Dean?"

"Uh, some water would be great."

He gratefully accepted the bottle of water. The deep gulps he took were satisfying and helped ease his nerves. He was surprised that he felt nervous. He was generally a laidback guy, not someone who carried worry. His life would have been unbearable if he spent his days brooding over every little thing that could potentially go wrong. He didn't have any structure or support networks, a lot could go wrong, but he always dealt with each new crisis as it cropped up. Otherwise, he'd have descended into insanity a long time ago.

His head snapped up at the sound of a door opening. A guy who looked to be a little older than him emerged, disappointment evident on his face. He moped back down the hallway, his shoulders dropping with every step. This Rollins guy must be super fucking picky.

The other men filtered into the study one by one, some reappearing less than a minute later, others taking several minutes before they walked out dejectedly. The grandfather clock struck midnight as the last man left the house.

"Mr. Rollins will see you now, Dean," Nikki said, nodding in the direction of the study. "You'll be fine."

He stood up and rubbed his sweat-slicked palms on his jeans, pausing at her reassuring words. He gave her a shaky nod and walked stiffly through the open door. The only light source in the room came from the large fireplace to his left. He blinked a few times, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness.

Bookshelves lined the wall to his right from ceiling to floor, and were crammed to capacity. A big mahogany desk was set out directly in front of him, the chair turned to face the opposite direction. He could just make out the top of a head over the back of it.

Dean stood in silence for a few moments, the sparks from the fire the only sound in the room. Thinking that Rollins didn't know that he was there, he cleared his throat and spoke at last.

"Hi, I'm Dean Ambrose."

The head moved ever so slightly, before the chair slowly swivelled around to face him.

Dean's breath caught in his throat when he saw the man sitting in it. He was…beautiful. He was born for opulence, and wore wealth well. He had thick hair, dark except for a startling patch of blond that framed his gorgeous face. His skin was smooth and tanned, stretching over a lean yet muscular frame. He wore black dress pants and a black shirt that was rolled up to his forearms.

But it was the eyes.

It was the big, soulful brown eyes that kept Dean's feet rooted to that spot, unable to move.

"Hello, Dean Ambrose," the man said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his gaze travelling over Dean's body in much the same way that Nikki's had. "What brings you here tonight?"

The bite of his nails digging into the heel of his hand snapped Dean back to attention. "I'm here about the job. I was told that you would…have a job for me."

The man arched an eyebrow, a smirk flirting with his lips. "What else were you told about this job, Dean?"

"Uh, not much," Dean admitted, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. "My neighbour said that you would…have what I needed?"

"And what is it that you need?" The man leaned forward, seemingly interested in hearing his response.

Dean considered his answer for a moment, deciding to be blunt. Time wasn't a luxury that he could afford right now.

"Money."

The man's eyes flicked down for a moment, concealing his reaction.

"I mean, I want to work for it. I don't just expect you to hand it over to me for nothing. I, uh, don't mind physical work. Or any kind of work, really. Like, I didn't get my high school diploma, but I have a lot of experience and um, I'm a hard worker and…"

"I'm sorry, Dean. I don't think I'll be able to help you. Best of luck with your future endeavours. Nikki will see you out."

Dean tried in vain to not show his disappointment. His facial muscles twitched, the corners of his mouth determined to fall down. Why had he rambled? Why had he brought up money like that? This guy was obviously loaded. People probably showed up on his doorstep with tragic stories and demands every day of the week.

This was fucking humiliating. He had just screwed up his last chance to save his ass from eviction.

"S-sure. Thanks for your time," he mumbled, head bowed as he backed out of the room.

When the door had closed behind him, he reached up to slap himself in the face. "So fucking stupid."

"What are you doing out here?"

Dean looked up to find Nikki staring at him, her arms crossed under those very nice titties of hers.

"Interview's over," he shrugged, attempting nonchalance.

"No. You go right back in there and make him understand."

"He said he's not able to help me out, I can't force the man to hire me." Why wasn't she getting that?

She strode over to Dean and placed her hands on his shoulders, her expression resolute. He didn't like people touching him. He had to work to avoid flinching. "Dean, go in there and fight. I can tell that you're a fighter. Why is this any different? All of those guys before you tonight, they just gave up and left. He's looking for something different. Show him that you can do this. It'll be worth it."

"Okay." Dean surprised himself with his response.

Why was he listening to this strange chick? What did she know about him? Granted, she knew her boss. Maybe he should take her advice. It seemed sincere enough. He'd already humiliated himself once tonight, what could it hurt to try again? Either way, he'd be homeless in a few hours.

Deciding not to knock, he gripped the doorknob and pushed his way back into the room. Rollins was standing at the fireplace, staring into the flames. He seemed taken aback by the intrusion, glancing over his shoulder, his mouth open in a perfect little O.

"Did you forget something, Dean?"

"Yeah, I did." Dean's voice was stronger, more self-assured this time. "I want this job. I know I can do it, whatever it is. I'm trustworthy, I'm discreet and I don't mind working late. I saw the other guys you interviewed tonight. They showed up in their flashy suits, ready to feed you lines of practiced bullshit. I'm being real with you here. I'm what you want."

That had felt good. He was telling the truth. Sure, he was a little rough around the edges, but he was a good guy. One of the few good guys in his world.

Rollins watched him intently, apparently mulling it over. He slowly approached Dean, his gait reminiscent of a hunter approaching its prey. Leisurely. Almost menacing.

"Do you even know what I want?" Rollins asked softly, continuing to advance upon him.

Dean instinctively took a step backwards, followed by several more until he was pressed up against the wall. Rollins was so close to him. Uncomfortably close. Dean bit down on the panic that rose up in his throat. No. This was a test. This guy was trying to scare him away. It wouldn't work. Not when he needed this job so badly.

"I don't know the specifics, but I know that I'm the right man for the job." Dean's heart-rate had kicked up, his mind battling his body, screaming at him to get the hell out of there.

Rollins' gaze slipped down to his throat, as if he could sense the conflict. "I think you should be made aware of the specifics before you agree to anything. Do you want to know what I need, Dean? What I want?"

Dean swallowed with effort, nodding, "Yeah. I do."

Rollins placed his hands on either side of Dean's head, tilting his own at an angle, as if he were about to kiss Dean. Their warm breath mingled together, their chests almost touching.

"I want your blood."

A/N: Dun dun dunnnnn. Want to read more? Let me know!