Seth has never hated anyone more than he hates the entirety of the WWE Universe at the moment. Maybe 'hate' is too strong a word, but damn if he doesn't want to just shake them all by their collective shoulders and scream 'what do you want from me?!'

He's at a loss. He has no idea what to do, other than win and put those two-faced backstabbers in their places. Not even an entire year had gone by and they were on their knees, practically begging for Brock Lesnar to make a comeback to the square circle. Any other time, they'd wanted to crucify the man for ending the fabled undefeated streak or putting Super Cena down like fucking Old Yeller. Now suddenly, Seth finally claws his way to the very top, has the gold around his waist and the benefits of being the Authority's golden boy, and suddenly he's the bad guy. Suddenly everyone wants a piece of him, like a zombie horde starving for brains.

Why couldn't anyone just be happy for him? Sure, he had Joey and Jamie on his side, but that was only because Stephanie and Hunter kept the duo's pockets lined generously and they were only paid to be friendly with (such an awful human being) Seth. He knew he couldn't really count on them unless the power couple of the company made them pretend. And Kane was definitely one of those people who would love to rip one of Seth's arms off and beat him over the head with it. He didn't trust him as far as he could throw him, which wasn't a very impressive distance; very much like tossing an elephant.

Seth knew he had taken a less than honorable road to get to where he was, but so what? He'd never claimed to be a good person. He wasn't perfect; everyone expected him to be one way or the other, anything to fit their convoluted image of him: either he was the fragile, overexcited puppy dog whose paws were too big for him, or he was a horrible, horrible son of a bitch. No in-between. No questions asked.

No one really took the time to understand that he wasn't going to play that fucking game. He was going to get where he wanted to be the way he wanted to; may the highest bidder win, the odds ever in his favor. It just so happened to be that Steph and Trips had offered the best way there. It didn't hurt to have a little help climbing the hierarchy ladder, right?

Seth was alone up there. Stephanie and Hunter just kind of watched from the sidelines. Joey and Jamie only put up with him because they had to. And Kane probably would've roasted him over a spit by now if he didn't risk losing his position in the company. Seth was used to being alone; no big deal, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty: he isn't quite used to having the entire world ban together to collectively squash him into the dirt.

Truth be told, before wrestling had become the stuff that replaced oxygen, food and probably even water, Seth had been likeable. He had a circle of friends he considered close, but he was well-loved amongst his classmates. He always had someone to walk with, some girl's number to call whenever he was bored and lonely. There were no real enemies for Seth Rollins. The world had been his oyster.

He got his first real death threat in the mail the Friday before Battleground. He'd gotten threats like those on Twitter and Instagram, sure, but never had one actually shown up at his own home; that's what had shaken him the most. The first day home in weeks and he spends the time mulling over the page in the envelope instead of resting and recuperating.

Seth sits crosslegged on his couch, staring at the note in his lap. He never usually let things like this get to him. He'd even confessed during an interview once that he was pretty sure he was the most hated man in America –knowing this, he also knew he would be flooded with nasty messages from all forms of social media, but he'd never let it get to him. Not until Brock had returned and had everyone eating right out of the palm of his dirty hands.

Seriously, was no one happy for him? He was a good champion, he thought. He knew he was good. He was a good wrestler. He was a good guy; he just had a weird way of showing it. If everyone would stop doubting him, he could just show them. He could make them understand that he wasn't the shadowy villain they'd painted him out to be. If they would just sit the fuck down, shut the hell up and listen and watch.

Seth brought his knees up to his chest and huffs into the grey knee of his sweatpants. He was just misunderstood. He really wasn't a bad guy; who was going to remember a skinny kid from fucking Iowa with any worthwhile thoughts? He'd made a name for himself in the best way he knew how. It didn't matter that he was good back in the indies or in FCW or even the first NXT champion. No one would remember him if he didn't keep going, pushing boundaries and making it so that no one ever forgot his name. He knew he was good; the heavyweight title just validated that for the world.

And now suddenly, the world was trying to take that from him. They wanted to write him off as a monster, a backstabbing nobody who stepped on throats and went behind people's backs to get where he was. And he wouldn't let them. He was fucking angry that they would try to take this from him. After all that he had done?

Seth wasn't the type to be paranoid, but lately, he'd been questioning the motives of his 'family'. Had they set him up like this? Hunter had told him that to face Brock would be a test to challenge Seth's ability. He was testing him to see if he was really worth the heavyweight title he'd clawed through so many people to get.

Did they have faith in him? He wonders sometimes if they only chose Brock because they were like everyone else: they wanted to take what was rightfully his away too. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't anyone just be happy for him?

It made so much sense in his head.

Offhandedly, Seth ponders if it's a good idea to throw the letter into the garbage; no telling what the sender dusted the envelope with. Seth does just that, though he goes the extra measure and burns the letter and its envelope in the sink, then goes upstairs and takes a hot shower that cleans him pink. Does arsenic wash off in the shower?

Cyanide letter or not, Seth is going to fight like hell for his title. He tries to spend the rest of his short rest break to relax, unwind the knot of nerves coiled in his body. He literally has to force himself to take it easy.

Jumpy is an understatement. Seth would never admit it, not for as long as he lived, but he was downright skittish to be in the same building as his self-proclaimed executioner. He called them pre-show jitters, but deep down he knew that really wasn't it at all. It was more like a paranoid nervousness. What if it really was him versus the world? He couldn't even count on his family, was pretty sure everyone was out to get him. Holy hell, is this what it's like to be Dean Ambrose for a day?

Sitting in his locker room, Seth straddles a bench and sips halfheartedly from a cool water bottle. His stomach is too jumpy to really keep down much of anything, much less a light snack before his match, so he's pretty much been camping out in his locker room for the majority of the pay-per-view. A little later, he wonders if he should at least try to eat something; his match is the last on the card, and any little mistake could be the kiss of death for him and his title.

Candy Crush is such a mind-numbing experience. It's great. Seth dithers through a few rounds of that and aimlessly types out as many palindromes as he can in the notepad app on his phone before he decides its time he stretched and warmed-up. He makes the decision to venture out to find a fruit cup or something to nibble on so he doesn't actually throw up in the ring from hunger. Fucking nerves, man.

He manages to slip into catering, wrangle up an assorted fruit cup and hurry back mostly unseen to his locker room.

Seth might not actually hate the WWE Universe, but he quite literally hates the syrup in fruit cups. The blood of Satan, he calls it. It's disgusting and sugary and serves literally no purpose other than to spurt into your eyes when you try to open the plastic top and make a mess of everything. Case in point, Seth grumbles under his breath when he gets an eyeful of sweet syrup. He only opens the plastic a little, so that he can pour the syrup into a different cup. He'll probably just throw it out later; used to, he'd just give it to Dean. His old teammate used to love that stuff, while Seth just came for the fruit tidbits. Now that he wasn't there, Seth had no use for it. Maybe he could just throw it down the sink.

Seth throws the cup back, downing the fruit pieces inside in one go, not even bothering to use a spoon, and uses a napkin to wipe at his mouth, because he's not a fucking barbarian. No sooner than he chews his mouthful does he nearly choke on it again when a hand drops on his shoulder.

"Boo."

Seth almost breaks his neck trying to scramble away from the voice, coughing and sputtering on his half-swallowed fruit.

One Dean Ambrose grins at him, throwing his leg one at a time over the bench and sits facing Seth. He settles his chin in both hands, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Hello," he sing-songs conversationally, like he's just found a curious creature in his own home.

Seth's heart beats in his chest so quickly he thinks it might actually beat right out of his ribcage and fly to the floor at Ambrose' feet. Talk about giving someone your heart.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Seth pants. His hand finds its way to his chest, almost like a catcher's mitt, just in case his heart actually does try to make a run for it. Dean's grin stay firmly in place on his face, though it does grow a little wider. "Scare you, sweetheart?" he asks.

Mocking.

Seth looks away and leans against the wall. His legs feel boneless, like they might give out any minute.

"What are you doing here, Ambrose? You don't even have a match tonight."

Now Dean presses a hand to his chest in faux hurt. "I can't come wish my friend good luck on his match?"

Seth rolls his eyes. He's starting to calm down a little. "We're not friends, Ambrose."

Dean has the audacity to look disgusted. "Oh, god, no. Not you. I was referring to Roman. I hope you get what's coming to you, treacherous slut."

Seth's eyes widen comically at the name Dean pegs on him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. What was he supposed to say to that?

Dean laughs.

Seth narrows his eyes. He wasn't supposed to say anything.

Dean had an annoying knack of getting into people's heads, under their skin like a parasite. That was all that he was doing now with the name-calling and Seth wouldn't let himself fall prey to that trick. He knew Dean too well. The bastard thrived on that sort of thing.

"That doesn't even make sense. And you know what else doesn't make sense: why, if you're here for Roman, are you in my locker room?"

Dean frowns. Seth thinks he's got him pegged –somehow, he's not sure, it's not like he really insulted the guy- but then Dean says, "Oh, so he gets to be 'Roman', but I still have to be 'Ambrose'? Well, at least now I know who your favorites are."

"I hate you both equally," Seth says, folding his arms across his chest. He arches an eyebrow. "That better? So riddle me this: why are you here?"

Dean leans forward on the heels of his palms. "Why do you think I'm here?"

Seth rubs his forehead. He really doesn't need this right now. "Can you stop with the mind games? Jeez, that's one thing I don't miss about you guys," he mutters. He really wishes he hadn't said that, because Dean frowns and curiously tilts his head to one side. "You left the door unlocked when you went out, so I just kinda invited myself in. You miss us?"

"No." It's sharp and spoken a little too quickly, but maybe it'll shut Dean up quicker and they can move onto the subject at hand.

Thankfully, Dean shrugs and scratches his jaw absently.

"How're you feeling?" he asks simply.

Seth blinks. Then he blinks again, unsure of what Dean has just asked him. Did he even hear him correctly? Was his mind playing tricks on him; he had only eaten a fruit cup in the past few hours.

"Come again?"

"How're you feeling?" Dean repeats slowly, patiently, as though he's speaking to a child.

"Why do you care?"

"Can you just answer the question?"

Seth rolls his eyes. "If you're worried about me, I'm fine, and also, what does it matter to you? You're just like everyone else."

"Hell no. I'm not worried about you, kid; don't flatter yourself," says Dean offhandedly. "I'm just wondering if you're gonna give it your all tonight. I won't give you any hints as to who I'm pulling for, but I need to know if you're gonna give me a good match tonight. You remember, I hate to be disappointed."

Seth makes a face. He remembers and it makes him a little mad that he does.

"I'll be fine," he replies firmly, hoping the tone of his voice is enough to stop the conversation for good. But Ambrose shakes his head. "Nah. You're off. I've seen you on your best days, Seth. You can't fool me, remember? I can read you like a book. Somethin's bothering you up here," he taps his temple with his knuckles. "What's up? You need me to play therapist or something? Hold on one second."

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of black glasses that Seth almost immediately recognizes as his own. Dean slips them onto his head and grins, looking expectantly at Seth like he wants an honest opinion on how he looks.

"See? I've got my therapy glasses on," Dean says happily. Seth takes a step forward. "Give me my glasses back, Ambrose." He hopes he can pack enough warning in his voice to have his glasses immediately returned to him, but Dean just kind of blinks at him owlishly.

"Damn, kiddo," he mutters, his eyes fluttering behind the lenses, "didn't realize how blind you actually were."

"I'm not blind," Seth retorts. Dean only waves him off.

"Tell Dr. Dean what the problem is. You scared of big bad Brock?" Dean asks. Something pops behind Seth's eyes. Maybe a blood vessel, because Dean's voice is giving him a headache.

"I'm not scared of Lesnar."

Dean shrugs. "It's okay if you are. That guy's like a snow plow; he'd mow your ass down in a heartbeat. Saw what he did to your little security guy." He shakes his head. "Terrifying."

"I'm not scared," Seth repeats firmly, ready to punch Ambrose in his smug face. Dean doesn't even try to dodge him, just holds up a hand and announces, "You can hit me, but these are your glasses I'm wearing."

He laughs at the way Seth grumbles in annoyance and backs off. "Seriously, man. It's okay to be wound up. I get it, okay?"

"Get what?" Seth asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You're scared that Lesnar is gonna be the one thing that you can't scrape and claw your way to victory with. He's the fucking mountain in your path and you're worried you won't be able to get over it. I bet you think Stephanie and Trips set it up that way just to see you lose," Dean says. He shakes his head. "And people think I'm paranoid. Tragic."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Dean arches an eyebrow. "Don't I?"

His eyes are clear and cutting, like he knows something that Seth isn't privy to. It's unnerving.

"I wouldn't put it past them; only they could be so cruel. You're totally justified in your paranoia, though. And like I said, it's okay to be scared. If you aren't then there's something wrong with you, and that's coming from me," Dean tells him with those knowing eyes. "Even though you stabbed your best friends in the back to get it, you did work hard to get that title around your waist. I was there, remember? Remember when we nearly killed each other in the ring night after night, trying to be better than the other? We worked our asses off for the FCW 15."

Seth nods once, slowly. He remembers. Times were simpler then.

"I still have it out for you since you went all cloak and dagger on us and betrayed the Hounds, but I would be lying if I said I didn't condone cheating."

"You used to cheat all the time," Seth reminds him flatly. "Back in FCW."

"Course I did. 'Cause I was in the position that you're in now: doin' anything to get my hands on that gold. We all want to be remembered Seth. You just went about it a different way."

Dean sands his hands together and the two dip into silence, Seth mulling over Dean's words, and Dean just sort of watching him. Seth stares down at his boots, brow furrowed. He knew Dean was right. Wait, was this Dean coming to terms with what Seth had done? Granted, he was still pissed off about it, but at least he knew why Seth was doing the things he did. Maybe that was why they'd gotten along so well: they got each other.

"Still wanna pound your face in, but just…and I'm not forgiving you or saying that what you did was, like, honest or anything," Dean says, fixing Seth with a hard, serious glare through the lens of the glasses, "I'm just saying…I'm beginning to understand why you did what you did. I hate that you had to do it this way, and what I'm saying- trying to say is…maybe the world's against you, but some of us are still holding out."

Seth understood now. Dean really did get him. He understood that all of that hard work was meant for something. And he was…

"I'm waiting," Dean interrupts Seth's train of thought. He raises his eyebrows. Seth blinks.

"Uh…what?"

"Eloquent. You got anything you wanna say? You looked kinda shell-shocked for a moment there," answers Dean.

Seth shakes his head, kneading his palms into his eyes. "Don't think this changes anything," he mutters. "I still don't like you." He hates how petulant he sounds.

Dean feigns a look of hurt, mockingly pressing his hand to his heart. "After that little Dr. Phil moment we had? Still? How cruel."

Seth shakes his head again. "Shut up. Get out of my locker room."

"Yeah, right. Need to go hunt down Rome anyway. It is getting pretty late, isn't it?" Dean surprisingly agrees with no resistance. He stands and heads towards the door. Just before he grabs the handle, he pauses. "Don't forget; I'll be watching. Don't disappoint me."

Seth's brow draws together. He wonders if he should ask.

"Ambrose," he calls before Dean disappears through the door, before he loses the nerve. Dean looks back at him curiously. Seth's hands feel sweaty. "Ambrose…you…"

Dean stares at him, waiting for him to say something, then decides against it. "Okay, okay," he mutters instead. He steps back inside the locker room, just enough to reach out and wrap an arm around Seth's shoulders like they're best friends again. Seth tenses in his grip, expecting him to put him in a chokehold or something, and is more than a little surprised when all Dean does is whisper, "show the world, Seth," in his ear, then backs out of the room, shooting finger guns at him the whole way as he disappears into the hallway.

Seth blinks at the spot where he had been. It kind of tingles where Dean's arm had been across his shoulders, like a burn mark. Hm.

The whole visit was so surreal, Seth wonders if it even happened, if Dean had even been there, or if he really was losing his mind.

That could've gone better.

Seth lies back on the concrete, letting the cool chill race up and down his back. His back is killing him, not to mention his ego is a little bruised. Not that he's really complaining too much about how his match with Lesnar turned out –if he didn't know any better, he'd say the Beast Incarnate was actually trying to tear his arms off- so it wasn't like he wasn't happy about the Undertaker coming in to give the guy a sound beating, but he was feeling a little jilted by the fact that he hadn't kept his promise to burn Suplex City to the ground.

He felt like it made him look weak; he couldn't even get much of a swing in edgewise, yet Brock had thrown him around that ring like a bag of flour and beaten him six ways to Sunday. So yeah, the night had been bittersweet. He wasn't zombie food, but he wasn't a legitimate winner either. Like the victory was a fluke. It didn't feel as good as people thought it did.

The only reason Seth was lying out here at two in the morning instead of sleeping the hurt off was because he happened to like the stars and the sound of lapping water and the cicadas singing at night. And if it was a little humid out that night, then he'd have all the comforts of home right there by the hotel pool.

He was on his back, one leg curled underneath him and the other dragging lazily through the water. The lights inside the pool made the water look sky blue, crystal clear and clean, even though it really wasn't and probably resembled dishwater in the daytime. It still wasn't the nastiest pool he'd been in, not by a long fucking shot. The air was a bit nippy, what with Seth's t-shirt being hiked up a little in the back, bare skin pressed flush against the concrete edge, the water cool around his legs. Times like these Seth likes best. He can stare at the stars and just focus on the cicadas or his own breathing, in, out, in, out, until it lulls him to a doze, and forget that everyone who knew his name spoke it with disgust, like a curse word or something.

Wow, you're a real Seth; how do you sleep at night?

Did you call your brother 'Seth'? We don't curse in this household!

He doesn't have to impress the stars. He doesn't have to push himself beyond his limits for the cicadas to keep singing. He can just forget about the Authority and the mess he'd made of the Shield, and Cena and Lesnar, and how literally all of America, and probably the world, has a fucking death wish out for him. Seth could just remember how to be human out here.

Seth closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. He really could stay out here all night, but Raw would be filming tomorrow. He had to make that episode, no matter how much he wanted a break. He wonders if Roman won his match with Bray Wyatt. He hadn't actually watched it, on account of Candy Crush being a little more interesting at the time, and if Dean had really gone to find him. If he won, they probably celebrated. As far as Seth knew, that creepy backwoods cult leader had had it out for Roman and his kid for an unnerving few weeks. Part of him kind of hoped the big Samoan had put him down for good, if only for the kid's sake. Seth wasn't a monster.

If Roman and Dean were out celebrating, he figured he wouldn't run into them tonight. That was a load off of his shoulders, but it felt more like one pebble falling out of a big bag of them: it wasn't much. But at least he wouldn't have to worry about being punched in the fucking face or annoyed for the rest of the night-

Someone was there.

Seth's eyes fly open, his body already tensing for a wild swing if need be. He swears his heart skips a beat when he looks up into a pair of blue eyes hovering unblinkingly over him. His body fails him, just freezes, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Cool. I thought you were dead," says Dean. Seth finally lets out the breath he didn't know he had been holding and quickly finds his voice. It comes out like a bit of a croak. "What are you doing here?"

Dean doesn't move from above him, shifting the weight on his elbows slightly. He's lying on his stomach, leaning over Seth, so he's kind of upside down. He shrugs. "I saw you out here and thought someone had murdered your ass. Probably Brock, but judging from the beating the old man gave him, that seemed really unlikely."

Seth rolls his eyes and groans. "I don't want to talk about it," he says miserably, unable to keep the defeat from his voice. Dean shakes his head, and at that moment, Seth really doesn't understand how he put up with him for as long as he did; he was stubborn as shit and couldn't take the hint whenever he wasn't wanted.

"Sucks that you lost, kiddo. How's your neck? Looks like big bad Brock got you pretty good," Dean prattles on, leaning his chin on one hand, "what was that, like, thirteen suplexes straight? That's an unlucky number; shoulda made it an even fourteen."

"Fuck off," Seth growls, "can't you see when you're not wanted?"

He still hasn't made an effort to sit up and leave, probably because Dean is still hovering over him and at this point, he's still too comfortable to move, even if he has been joined by an unwanted guest. Dean looks down at him strangely.

"What?"

"You did what I couldn't. I'm just wondering if that title made you look any different."

"That's stupid. A title change doesn't make you look different. It's not plastic surgery."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

Seth knows, indeed. Dean's searching for something other than the blonde streak in Seth's hair, or his tattoos, or all the little imperfections that mapped out his face: the warm spark in his brown eyes. It's something Seth has heard called 'the old Seth'. The 'Seth' from the Shield, the 'Seth' from even further back, way back in the indies, when he went by another name and hardly knew Dean Ambrose. Back when times were simpler. That's what he's looking for.

"I haven't changed. I'm still the same," Seth swallows roughly, eyes narrowing, "I'm the same Seth you always knew; you just…"

Seth doesn't know how to phrase this. He doesn't know what words will stick, what will finally make Dean understand.

"You just forgot about it."

Dean isn't smiling. He isn't doing much of anything. His eyes look like marbles, blank, blue and a little glassy. He's staring down at Seth with an unreadable gaze. It's almost mannequin-like, disturbing.

"I didn't forget," he says. His voice is smooth like marble. It frustrates Seth that he can't gauge what he's feeling from it, and even more so that it kind of scares him. Dean continues with his slate voice. "I was hoping that your friends were a little more important than a belt, is all."

His gaze wanders from Seth's eyes to rest just below his face. It's intense as per usual Dean, and it feels as though he's reached out with his pointer finger and traced from his eyelids to his throat. It's tangible. It sucks.

"You should get a tattoo here," says Dean absently, as though his mouth is working without his brain telling it what to say. He reaches out and tugs away the collar of Seth's t-shirt, tapping his finger against his collarbone. Seth doesn't remove his hands from underneath his head to swat Dean's hands away. He just continues to stare at him even though he isn't even looking back.

"I guess I don't need to ask why you're here," he mumbles instead. "You wouldn't give me a straight answer anyway, and it's not like I care."

Dean shrugs offhandedly. "I knew you'd be out here if you weren't in your room. You've got a thing for sulking in silence." He's still tapping out a rhythm against Seth's collarbone. Seth doubts he knows he's even still doing it.

"You're one to talk," he snorts. "Guess we're not so different after all, huh?"

"Not at all," Dean says matter-of-factly. "Cut from the same cloth. What did I tell you: 'from one scumbag," he gestures to himself, "to another.' That one's you."

"I'm not a bad person," Seth says suddenly. He doesn't know why he told Dean that.

"In what regard?"

Seth doesn't answer. He shouldn't have said anything in the first place. Dean keeps talking though.

"Good people don't hit their friends with chairs."

"What are you talking about? You literally tried to break my arm once in FCW."

"I never said I was a good person. You just assumed that's what I was saying. Don't put words in my mouth."

Seth rolls his eyes for the hundredth time tonight. "Why do I put up with you?"

Dean shrugs again and finally moves from over Seth, rolling to his right and out of Seth's peripheral vision. Seth can hear him messing with the water, thinking Dean's mimicking him in dipping his feet into the water. The shriek-squeal that he makes when he feels cold hands around his ankles, fingers working their way under the backs of his knees and pulling him, is astounding. It's definitely not a sound that a twenty-nine year old man would be proud of making.

Seth makes it worse, sitting up too quickly and providing Dean with the momentum to help him drag Seth into the water with him. Sopping wet now, Seth shoves Dean in his chest. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You want the definitive list, or the brief history?" Shaking his head, he doesn't relinquish his grip on Seth, now moved from his legs to his upper body. "You really need to lighten up. You didn't used to be this stuffy; now you got a suit and a belt and a sugar daddy and suddenly you're-"

He lets go of Seth and shoves backwards in the same motion, just narrowly avoiding a wave of water slapping against his face. Seth bristles, hand stinging a bit from slapping at the water so hard. "Fuck you, Ambrose. I don't have a 'sugar daddy'; that's my boss you're talking about."

"Maybe so, but that doesn't change the fact that he gives you whatever you want if you give him something in return," Dean says slowly. "Technically, isn't that how a sugar daddy works?"

He gets another wave of water splashed at him for an answer.

"Alright, alright," he relents, his hands raised in placation, "maybe he isn't. But that still doesn't change the fact that you need to unwind sometimes. Just swim with me, kiddo. I promise I won't drown you."

Seth will admit that there are still qualities to Ambrose' personality that he doesn't quite get. He keeps surprising him every day, it seems. Never a dull existence with Dean Ambrose.

"Why do you want me to swim with you? We don't like each other?"

Dean is still fully clothed, in jeans and a t-shirt, swimming in lazy circles around the length of the pool. "Just because we don't like each other very much right now doesn't mean we can't just enjoy the same things. Think of it as just being in the same place as me, doing the same thing as me, but not doing it with me, if that makes you feel better."

To prove his point, Dean dips underwater and Seth follows the shimmery outline of his body with his eyes as he swims in the opposite direction. Seth watches him for a moment longer, watches him become a distorted dark figure in the water the further away he gets, and then dips under himself. His hair becomes a dark cloud around his head, like a tarnished halo, as he pumps his arms through the water. His shoulders burn with the strenuous movement, protesting against him in a similar way that his muscles stretched after a day at a Crossfit gym. He could handle it, the cool water slipping across his shoulder blades; he could handle the burning.

Seth likes the way he can't hear anything under the water. The vague, muffled noises of his arms churning water, he can kind of hear it in his head. It's a lulling, mind-numbing sound that makes him forget everything except for the routine movement of his arms and legs, at least until he sees the dark shadow of Dean crossing over him. That's when he remembers everything else.

When he breaks the surface, it's like everything comes rushing back with the oxygen. He blinks the water droplets out of his eyes, unaware of how hard he's breathing, the burn in his shoulders and back becoming more of an ache.

Seth floats on his back, waiting for his breathing to even out, the weird lump in his throat making it harder than it should be to relax. He goes back to staring up, looking at the stars with eyes that could be described as rather longing. Everything hurts and he doesn't know why. It isn't the physical pain that he's even referring to, but he doesn't know what else to blame it on.

He floats until he feels his skin turning wrinkled in the water, until he feels like he'll probably watch the sun come up in the pool, and is a little surprised when he doesn't fight the arms wrapping around his waist and the theme from 'Jaws' is hummed in his ear underneath him. Dean nips at the juncture between Seth's neck and shoulder, making comically exaggerated chewing sounds under his breath.

"Got you," he murmurs into Seth's ear. He starts pulling them both towards the edge of the pool, humming some tuneless song as he goes. Seth thinks it kind of starts to sound a lot like 'Row your Boat' by the time he stops humming and asks, "What'cha thinking about?"

"I'm not," Seth replies weakly. Dean still has him around his waist, Seth's back pressing flush against his chest. He can feel Dean humming in disapproval in his ribs. "Like hell you aren't. Regrets? Enlighten me."

Seth briefly considers pushing away from Dean. He doesn't really want to have this talk, and definitely not with Dean Ambrose of all people. But he doesn't get the chance, because Dean swings him away from his chest and into the wall, only to practically be nose-to-nose with him.

"No regrets," Dean murmurs again, "really?"

Seth looks him in the eye, tries to look as serious as he can and muster up enough vitriol in his voice as he can so Dean will finally get the point and shut the hell up.

"Yeah, really. My conscience is clear; looks like you don't really know me that well after all," Seth grumbles. Dean goes quiet for a few moments, tilting his head curiously at his former teammate. A moment of silence is all that Seth needs to parrot Ambrose's words right back to him.

"What'cha thinking about? For you, that's a dangerous thing to be doing, don't you think?"

Dean smirks, but there is no warmth behind it. "Ha. Funny," he says. Seth doesn't think it is. "Did you know that way back when we were still the Shield, people thought that it was going to be me who split us up?"

Seth doesn't respond. No surprise there, what with all the heat Ambrose had had with Reigns. Seth himself had worried that it would be Dean who split them up as well, if only because he felt the world was ganging up on him; best to fly solo, where he wouldn't have to put up with teammates he couldn't agree with.

"But then, you know me," Dean continues with a response from Seth. "You know I've got no one else but you and Rome. I may have given the guy shit, but I didn't want to break the three of us up over it. Please, I'm not that shallow."

Seth raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Really?"

"You know that."

"If you're asking why I left," Seth says, eyes narrowing, "it's simple: priority. I know you wouldn't understand; you're only here in this company because you were looking for a good time. Skirt-chasing, getting into trouble, being paid to break people's faces. Paid thousands, I should add; definitely something you couldn't get just wrestling in the indies."

Seth nods his head back, a gesture to himself without the use of his hands, the same hands that are connected to the wrists Dean has somehow wrapped his fingers around without Seth noticing. "But me, I came here to be the best. I came here to make sure that no one forgets my name. You'll forgive me if you and Reigns were just caught in the crossfire. And even if you don't, it doesn't matter. What's done is done."

Dean nods, agreeing with him. "You're right. What's done is done. But that still doesn't explain why you had to stab me and Roman in the back. We could have gone our separate ways without the chair shots to the back and the curbstomps to the head."

Seth smirks. "Simple," he tells him, lowering his voice a little, like someone invisible might hear them, "you wouldn't have let me go alone. You would've come after the title, same as me. Less competition, the better. Believe me, I tried to put you down long enough to grab the gold and go, but you certainly are a fucking cockroach, Dean Ambrose. No matter what I throw at you, I just can't seem to put you down for good; guess I must've forgotten about our FCW days. My mistake. Won't happen again."

Now Dean narrows his eyes, leaning back despite his persisting grip on Seth's wrists. "You're a real bastard, you know that?"

"Wasn't it you who said we were cut from the same cloth?" Seth replies, not missing a beat. He raises an eyebrow to punctuate his point. It only serves to make Dean smirk.

"I guess we've both forgotten," he finally says, like a tired confession. He shakes his head, looking much more worn and worse for wear now that he's said it. "You never were good at laying down either. Bloodied up and battered and fightin' to the very end, eh? You remember the time you tried to wrestle with a halfway broken leg?"

He huffs out a quiet laugh, a husk of a real one. The last breaths of a fond memory.

"You had your head in the clouds," he continues, voice uncharacteristically soft and reminiscent. Seth stares at him warily. "Willing to practically kill yourself for the gold, huh? Risk everything to get it, right? Nothing's changed. Maybe we've both forgotten who we really were. Nothing's changed. Nothing at all."

Try as he might to find them, Seth's head is empty of any words. He has nothing to say to that, except that, maybe, hearing it from Dean made him feel much more hollow. Nothing had changed, after all. He was right. The saying goes 'it's lonely at the top', and Seth knows it. And after all this time, he kind of understood why everything hurt now: he hadn't changed. He was still a selfish bastard, still scared of letting anyone let him go. He would scrape and claw and bite and let go of everything else to make sure that no one ever forgot him.

He would get to the top and find that he had no one to congratulate him there, nothing but a pair of cold grins and an insipid motto that everyone was tired of hearing. Hindsight, man. What a bitch.

Bittersweet as it was, it still didn't change the fact that Seth had accomplished just what he'd set out to do from the very beginning. Honestly, who ever dove into the wrestling business expecting to make friends? Everyone here was, if they were honest with themselves, came into the lifestyle to kick ass, take names and make a few for themselves. As far as Seth was concerned, it really was just a shame that Dean and Roman, his former teammates, his brothers, had been caught in the middle.

"Shocking, isn't it," comes Dean's voice. It sickly sarcastic and drags Seth out of his impromptu soul-search and back into reality, where the sky was still full of stars and Dean was still within breathing distance. His eyes are hard and dark, a clear image of Dean having put up his walls, guarding whatever emotions he might have from the world, or at least, at this moment, Seth.

Seth finally finds something to say, even though it's spoken slowly and rather slurry. "What is?"

Dean glares at him harder, like he can actually impale Seth with his ice chip eyes if he tries hard enough.

"That nothing's happened. People don't change. They don't ever think of anyone but themselves. Makes you wonder, huh? What if human beings weren't so fucking selfish?"

Seth furrows his brow, eyes narrowing in confusion. He's pretty sure he heard Ambrose right. What the hell was he talking about?

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean's hands aren't around Seth's wrists anymore. They've found their way to his shoulders, quicker than he realizes, and shake him once, hard, landing him right back into the wall. Seth's head bobs from the impact, and for a moment, he's dizzy and may or may not see two Dean Ambroses in front of him. He thinks he might have struck a nerve in the infamous Lunatic Fringe, but when his head finally stops swimming, he finds a pair of soft, downcast blue eyes staring back at him. Seth's never seen this side of Dean; it's always been the confident, kinda smarmy asshole kind of façade that was a little charming and a little annoying at the same time.

Dean's voice is so quiet, Seth strains to hear him, and wonders if he has even heard him right, which seems to be something that has happened a lot in the past few hours.

"I would've gone anywhere with you," he says, shaking Seth softly now, "you knew that. You had to. If you'd wanted to go after the heavyweight title, I would've gone with you, always been in your corner, screaming your name with the best of 'em." He laughs, more like a woosh of air from his lungs and a lopsided smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

"If you'd wanted to go after every single one o' those titles, I would've done everything in my fucking power to make sure you had all fucking five of those belts 'round your waist," he says. His fingernails are biting into Seth's arms, but he's too lost in Dean's words to really care. "You knew," he shakes his head, "you know I would've done anything for you. You're my brother, you fucking prick, you'll always be my little brother. I would've…" He doesn't quite finish the sentence, trailing off with his eyes searching Seth's. "Why didn't you let me?"

Dean's wrapped around Seth then, arms around his shoulders, face buried into his neck. He hasn't shaved in a few days; Seth can feel the prickly stubble chaffing against his skin when Dean murmurs softly, "Why didn't you let me?"

Seth finally gets it. The whole night, he'd been wondering, what had Dean meant by coming to see him of all people in the arena? Why was he still holding out for him –'some of us are still holding out', not so subtle anymore- why hadn't he just pushed Seth aside like he had Dean? Why hadn't he moved on like Seth thought that he himself had?

Seth was blood. He would never abandon blood. That was just how Dean was; holding onto scraps, hoping he could hold them together, no matter how futile it seemed. He had already lost so much; whatever he could salvage, he would give his damnedest to protect. He was holding out for Seth, waiting for him to come back, knowing that he never should have left in the first place.

"Were we just…not important anymore?" Dean's sudden voice startles Seth out of his thoughts. "Were we ever more important to you than the belt? You just pushed us aside for notoriety?"

"I don't know." Truth. Seth didn't know. He had just been so caught up in not wanting to be forgotten, not just a part of a group –he'd wanted his name to be remembered- Seth Rollins- not just the member of one of the most dangerous factions the wrestling world had ever seen. Everything else was just white noise and static. Background chatter and forgettable nonsense. Or at least, that's what he'd thought.

Fucking hindsight.

Dean is warm against him. He can't seem to move his arms or tell his body to return the embrace. He kind of feels like he might tarnish Dean if he tries to. God knows he's already done as much.

"I don't hate you."

Seth is surprised he actually said that out loud. It was rather weak and cracked at the end like old paper, but Dean apparently hears him anyway. He holds him tighter in response and says nothing more, just shakes his head and presses him close like he might evaporate in his arms if he let go.

Seth stopped trying to keep track of the night hours ago. Honestly, he has literally no idea what has happened since Battleground, he's just going with the motions it seems.

"Two Oprah moments in one night, huh," Dean mumbles quietly. Seth gives a one-shouldered shrug as best he can lying on his side. "Like a Lifetime movie, isn't it?"

It's too late to actually try to get some real rest –it's maybe four o'clock in the morning when they finally drag themselves wet and sopping out of the pool and back inside. The walk to the elevator is mostly silent save for the squelchy, squishy noise that makes Seth cringe every time he moves, and the two of them stand awkwardly in the car, pressed against opposite sides of it. When the elevator dings and the doors slide open they step out one at a time, Seth lagging behind in confusion. Dean kept walking though, down the hall, and looked back at Seth.

"You coming?" he asks.

Seth resists the urge to point at himself like an idiot, and nods dumbly. He finds his feet like a toddler, stumbling down the hall after him. When he catches up with Dean, he finds him digging a keycard out of his pocket and slipping it into the lock. The light turns green and the lock beeps softly.

"Keep it down," Dean murmurs. "We aren't the only ones in here."

Seth nods and follows him into the dark room. He feels Dean in front of him, accidently walking into his elbow, cocked back to point at the door on the left. "Bathroom," he whispers. Seth slips inside, making sure the door is closed before he turns the light on, feeling across the wall for the switch. He hears rustling beyond the closed door, and a moment later, the door reopens and welcomes Dean inside the room. He tosses a bundle of fabric in Seth's direction and peels out of his wet shirt.

"Thought you could use those," he says. "No underwear, though."

Seth nods his thanks. No need to turn his back to Dean to change; they'd seen each other naked more times than they could count. Their wet clothes make loud, slapping noises against the tile floor as they discard them, and the cold air blowing through the ceiling vent sends chills down their damp backs. They dress in silence, using the two white towels to dry themselves off.

Dean's tossed him a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both of them his. It's- ironically- an Ambrose Asylum t-shirt that he's given him, and Seth looks at it on himself in the mirror. Glancing to Dean at his right, he finds him wearing a plain black t-shirt and shorts. Dean grins knowingly and winks at him, then leads the march back into the main room. He has no trouble finding his way back to his bed in the dark, though Seth has a harder time, stubbing his toe against it and nearly biting his tongue off trying to keep quiet.

Dean suddenly hefts him up and onto the mattress, all but throwing him into the other side closest to the wall and crawls in after him. "Feels good, right?" he asks, burrowing under the duvet. Seth can't really see him and it's a little warm under the thick covers with the both of them hidden underneath, but he can hear him smiling anyway, hear it in his voice.

"What feels good?"

This time, he hears Dean give him an airy laugh. "Haven't had a sleepover before," he answers simply. The duvet shifts in a quick motion; Dean must've shrugged. "It's not that bad."

"Yeah," agrees Seth, "when you're quiet and not talking, it's nice."

"Mean. After I give you my varsity jacket and let you into my secret hideout?"

Seth can't help the way he laughs in between his words. "You…this isn't a varsity jacket. You gave me your shameless merchandise and we're hiding under your bedcovers."

"It got you into bed with me though, right?" Dean says smugly, the underlying innuendo obvious. Seth rolls his eyes, hoping Dean can practically see it in the dark. "You're literally the worst."

Silence falls over them for a long moment. Seth can hear his breathing intermingling with Dean's, and even Roman's, who he knows is in the other bed. He kind of wonders what he's doing. This is taboo, right? Sleeping with the enemy –though not quite in the sexual sense, like, c'mon. It felt like falling right back into a routine, kind of uncomfortable and welcome at the same time.

"Hey," he hears himself say.

"Hmm?" says Dean.

Seth swipes his tongue across his lips. "Did you really mean all of that? From earlier?"

"All of what? About sleepovers?"

"No. I mean, the stuff from the pool."

"O'course, dumbass. All you had to do was tell me when…I would've gone with you," says Dean. Seth thinks he can hear him thinking. "Why did you keep coming at me?"

Seth shrugs. "You kept coming at me. I would've been finished with you after I won the belt, but you kept trying to punch my face."

"I was trying to punch some sense into that fucking head of yours," Dean replies, like Seth was supposed to have already known this information. In a way, Seth knew that he kind of was. He knew how Dean's convoluted logic seemed like fucking rocket science to everyone else, but Dean could think it was the product of genius.

Dean starts talking again. "I'm not the best at being affectionate; no surprise there. I use my fists before I use my words, so of course I thought that hitting you until you somehow, magically, got the gist of what I was trying to tell you would work out."

Seth raises an eyebrow. "None of that was actual angst?"

"Nah. I was still mad at you. But in the beginning, it was me trying to get you to listen," Dean says, reaching out and grabbing Seth's face, shaking his head. He's laughing and Seth is suddenly laughing, and it feels like old times, simpler times. It's a good kind of pain.

"You remember, it would be me who told you something like that," Seth says, curling his fingers around Dean's. Dean's thumbs brush against Seth's cheek, so that he can feel him grinning, and settles into easy silence. Seth actually starts to doze in the quiet, fingers still curled around Dean's hands against his face, and is just on the brink of falling asleep completely when he suddenly remembers.

"Hey."

Dean takes a moment to answer, must've been dozing off too. "Yeah?"

"Would you still come with me?" Seth swallows audibly, his throat and tongue suddenly running dry as a bone. "Like, now?"

He'd deliberately used 'come with' rather than 'follow'. He wanted his old friend back, right by his side, not watching from the other side of a glass as an enemy or a sidekick. He missed this.

Dean is still quiet. Save for his thumbs tapping softly against Seth's jaw, the rest of him is still and stiff. Seth wonders if he's unsure of his answer; maybe Seth's already beyond redemption for him. It would make sense: Dean had an ungodly amount of trust issues, and various attempts to stomp his fucking head in and constantly ruining things for him was definitely not the best way Seth could earn it back.

Up until now, he hadn't noticed that everything that Dean had spoken of had been in past tense: 'I would've', 'I wanted', 'if you had'. And the past was a dangerous thing to dwell on; Dean knew that better than anyone.

"I want you to come with me," Seth adds after the silence runs on for much, much longer. He just needs to fill the quiet; it's maddening waiting for an answer. "If you- if what we've put each other through these past few months has been too much, you don't trust me as far as you can throw me, I get it. I think I knew what I was getting into when I signed onto the Authority bandwagon; I just didn't expect it to suck so bad. Y'know?"

He swallows. Dean is still quiet, like he's waiting for Seth to continue, so he does. "I'm not saying I want out. I'm saying that I want my best friend back."

Seth waits for an answer. He waits for an answer for so long that the next time he hears Dean's voice, he's waking up at seven in the morning with a hundred questions still trapped in his throat.

May be continued if there is enough demand, but for now, it's a standalone. Just some sappy, brotherly stuff to comfort me while I wait for the Shield reunion in fifty years.

-AC