Title taken from Automatic Loveletter's 'Hush,' which partially inspired this.
An anon once said I 'threw so much of myself into my work,' which is particularly true in this, I suppose, because this may be the most personal thing I have ever written.
(It took me four hours to write this, and I wrote it backwards, and I was exhausted by the end of it, so if you see a change in quality throughout the piece... that's why)
I've been thinking a lot about The Shield. About Seth, Roman, and Dean's dynamic. About the truth of it.
This is what resulted.

They're on top of the fucking world, and Dean's never felt more whole in his life.

They'd put everything they had out there during their match at Payback, every little piece of themselves, and they were exhausted and sore by the end of it, but it culminated in a victory, a hard-earned one.

Maybe they haven't been on the same page lately, but that's just how they are, they'll fight about stupid things, like Seth's secret love for skinny jeans or Roman's perpetual irritation with Dean's bad habits, but in the end, they're brothers, they're lovers, and they always will be, and it's a promise Dean intends to keep.

They're all devoid of energy when they make it into their hotel room, but there are still the flickers of a hunger, of a need, between them, and they know how to make it work. Roman's the most battered of the three of them, with raised welts from the lashes of kendo sticks crisscrossing across his back, and so together Seth and Dean take care of him first, breaking him into pieces that they share before carefully putting him back together. He's beautiful like this, skin flushed and sweat-slicked from their careful touches and low encouragements.

And then it's just Seth and Dean, and Seth attacks him with a viciousness that Dean's not used to, but it's okay, he likes it. He likes Seth getting rough with him, expending the last bits of energy Dean didn't know he still had in him, using him as he wishes.

Because they take care of him, of course; they're his brothers, his lovers, and they never leave him unsatisfied, unhappy. He knows they're temporary, everything's temporary for a guy like him, but he doesn't know how he even stumbled upon them in the first place, how he found not just one, but two people to love, people to love who would love him in return, and maybe it's all just another one of his fantasies.

"I love you," Dean tells his brothers that night, repeatedly, almost urgently, like a man pleading for mercy at his own execution. (He never notices how Seth doesn't say it back that night, how he just says "Come on, Ambrose," but there's warmth in his eyes when he says it, and Dean foolishly believes that warmth is for him.)

When they all turn in for the night, they all pile into one bed even though it's a room with two beds, and that one bed is just barely big enough to squeeze them all in, but Dean doesn't mind it. He always ends up in the middle like this, with Roman's front against his back and Seth's back against his front, and he likes that, likes the security of it, how they're protecting him even in sleep.

He falls asleep almost immediately, with Roman's arm wrapped around his middle, and his own arm wrapped around Seth's middle, face tucked into his neck. He never notices how Seth doesn't fall asleep immediately, how Seth lays awake, thinking about the next day and not about the two men behind him.

He sleeps through the ringing of Seth's phone at 4 am on the dot, sleeps through Seth untangling himself from Dean's tight embrace (even though, in his sleep, he looks for Seth, the missing piece of his unconscious peace) and heading for the bathroom, sleeps through the duration of the call and the end of it, Seth's voice, rough but firm, agreeing to the plan Roman and Dean wouldn't know about until it was too late.

But now, Dean thinks it was always too late for them.

There is nothing.

Dean Ambrose's world has narrowed down to the wrestling ring he stands in, numb to anything going on outside of it.

Numb to anything but the sound of cold metal colliding with his brother's back, numb to anything but the way his brother falls onto the ropes with the impact, numb to anything but the blood rushing in his ears and the way his heart has forgotten how to beat.

There his other brother stands, the string that had tied them together so perfectly that Dean had once wondered if his present life was just an elaborate fantasy he'd soon wake up from, eyes cold and expression firm as he stares at Dean, the fondness in his eyes held during their late-night celebration the previous day gone entirely, as if it was never there in the first place.

Dean feels his lips move, but he doesn't know what he's saying. It's like he's watching everything from afar, disconnected to the real world because of what his brother has done to them. And he's stumbling forward on shaky legs, like he can make him stop, but he knows almost intuitively that his brother doesn't have it out for Roman alone.

And there it is, the punch of steel to the gut, unforgiving like the permanent goodbye it is. Dean hunches over, clutching at his stomach, only for his brother to slam the steel chair down onto his back, and his legs give out and he ends up on the canvas, reeling from the impact. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Roman still trying to recover from the first blow, from the definitive strike.

Dean tries to reach out to him, but his brother hits him again, and all Dean can do is try to curl in on himself and hope that this will be over soon, that the next blow will be the last, that his brother still has some semblance of humanity left in him; enough to grant them mercy.

But the universe is a cruel lover, and again Dean feels the white-hot pain lancing through every muscle still trying to heal from the toll of the previous night's match; the rattling of his bones as the steel licks against them, again and again.

One blow forces him to roll onto his back, and he immediately regrets it as his brother slams the steel against his ribs and arms, and it hurts a hell of a lot more than it does to his already abused back, and he rolls back onto his stomach and prays to every single god he doesn't believe in for it to be over.

Again, and again, and again.

He loses count after the fifth blow, too tired, too weak, to think. All he knows is pain. The pain of losing a friend, of losing a brother, of losing a lover. The pain of being beaten with his greatest weapon. The pain of his guilt, of undoubtedly knowing he's the reason for this, his brother's outburst; his brother had barely touched Roman.

He presses his face into the canvas, and he hears the clattering of steel, and when he manages to lift his head a few inches, the canvas is wet and his face is streaked with more than just sweat.

His brother has his back to him, but when Dean looks up, his brother notices, and starts circling him like a predator waiting for its prey to die, the chair dragging against the canvas behind him, loosely clasped in one gloved hand.

Dean desperately tries to push himself away, tries to get to Roman, who's flat on his back in the corner, but he's in too much pain to get anywhere.

He tries to push himself to his feet, but just when he thinks he's made it to a standing position, the chair is on the floor in front of him and his brother's boot is pushing down on the back of his head and the cold steel of the chair is embracing him once more.

Dean's flat on his back, and he vaguely registers that his brother is walking around him and exiting the ring, but at this point, he's teetering on the edge of consciousness, and he can't do anything about it. Can't do anything about his brother's betrayal, about his brother apparently handing the chair to Randy Orton like it's a confirmation of his acceptance into a new alliance and his betrayal of his brotherhood, about Randy Orton doing to Roman what his brother had just done to Dean.

All he can do is hope that he'll recover enough to sweep the broken pieces of himself from the canvas, and hope he can tell Roman he's sorry, hope he can say it's my fault, I never should have trusted him, even though he still loves his brother, loves him like the bittersweet burn of cheap vodka on lonely nights, loves him like a fire made with one too many cords of wood.

And it's him, isn't it? It's him, it was Dean that was the problem, oh yes, it was. It was Dean who never knew when to shut up, who bragged for months about having the United States Championship, who got in too many fights with his brother and when he was angry told his brother he loved Roman more. It was Dean who took things too personally, who always blamed himself on the nights that his brother didn't come home, on the nights that there was a cold spot in their bed, filled only by Dean's inevitable loneliness and the sharpness of his regret, of wondering what he'd done wrong that time. Even Roman's comfort never helped, because Dean was too much, wasn't he; one love was never enough, one night was never enough, one mistake was never enough.

He wonders why the whole world hasn't turned its back on him yet, why the sun still shines on him, why he still has Roman, even though he ought to have no one, because he's too much for anyone to love, to even care about, and at the same time he's not enough, because he lives and loves so fiercely that it burns him up until he has nothing left to give.

Maybe Roman will leave him, too, before Dean can burn him up into ashes, just like he'd done with his brother.

I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.