Chapter 3: Miles From Home

Dean bolted up the next morning, blue eyes wide and unfocused. His chest heaved and it took him a full minute to calm himself, quickly processing that he was in his new room in Roman's house.

That's right...Roman's house.

Dean let out a sigh and grabbed his rag before heading out towards the bathroom. He paused once he was in the hallway, overhearing the TV in the living room.

'Late last night, an apartment complex went up in flames in the town of Athens, Ohio. Investigations are underway as foul play is being suspected, as several tenants are believed to have been murdered before the complex went up in flames. In our next story, let's see how this video of a kitten went viral-'

Dean froze, eyes narrowing as he turned and headed towards the living room, finding Roman shuffling about the space with the news on, fiddling with the pieces of a Christmas tree. He grunted, eyes narrowed at the two plastic pieces in his hands, trying to clamp them together for the support for the fake tree as his glasses constantly drooped down past his nose.

"Isn't it a bit late to be setting up Christmas decorations?" He inquired, startling the larger man. At least, if the telltale sound of plastic cracking was anything to go by. Roman cursed under his breath, sadly looking down at the remains of the plastic support.

"You were out could when I brought you in, so you didn't see the outside of the house. The lights and yard decorations are already out there. I just...kept losing track of time." He laughed nervously, fidgeting with the now broken remains of the support for his tree.

Dean stared at him, unimpressed before he clicked his tongue. "That tree is done for. Before you even broke the thing. The branches are all bent out of place. How long have you had that?" He inquired, motioning to several branches bent at awkward angles. Roman's brows furrowed, deep in thought.

"...5...7 years?"

"...So, we're going to get a new tree today, right?"

Roman pushed his glasses up before he hummed, setting the pieces down. Dean turned to head back for the shower, yawning quietly. He could care less if Roman decided to leave or not-

"I suppose we are. Have you ever been around Indianapolis before?"

Dean nearly tripped.

Roman was at his side in a flash, concern etched all over his face.

"Are you okay? Are you dizzy? Is it your head? Here let me-"

Dean grunted, swatting Roman's mother hen-like hands away from his head, brows furrowed.

"M'fine. Did you say Indianapolis?"

Roman fixed him with a confused look.

"Yeah. Indianapolis. I found you in the town I work in, in Spring Hill. It's about 15 minutes or so from here. Why, is that weird? Where are you from?"

The next fucking state, three hours away-

"Bloomington."

Roman's eyes grew. "Bloomington? That's an hour away! How the hell did you get all the way here?" He inquired, shock etched all over his face. "When did you get mugged?"

"Hitchhiked. You can go far enough when you're trying to get a fresh start. I guess I got mugged when I got off of the bus somewhere. Everything is kind of hazy." Sometimes Dean hated how easily he could lie his way out of situations. This was not one of those times.

Roman shook his head, backing out of Dean's space. "You've had it rough huh, man? I can try and help you find a job to get you on your feet." He offered. It made Dean feel a bit bad, hearing the genuine need to help laced in Roman's voice. He wondered idly what it felt like to have such good intentions.

"I appreciate it. For now, I need a shower, then we can go get you another tree." He closed off any further conversation subtly, making his way to the shower while Roman went off to do god knows what.

Dean closed his eyes and let the shower water roll over his tense muscles. The rag was in a loose grip in his hand as he tried to sort his rampant thoughts out.

'So you somehow managed to drive three hours into the next state. At least you know where you are.'

Dean reached for the soap bar, lathering it up liberally before he washed himself.

'They burned the fucking apartment complex down.'

He paused, breath seizing up slightly. He knew those people. As annoying as they may have been, they were still innocent. Dean had killed several people in his career as a hitman. All of them had done their fair share of corrupt shit.

From human trafficking, to drug dealing.

Extortion to government corruption.

Dean had put a bullet in, snapped the necks of, even poisoned the worst of the worst under The Authority's orders. But those people...they were different. They honestly had nothing to do with the situation, and yet all of them were dead.

All of them…

Even the infant baby girl.

Dean felt his chest tighten up at the thought. That little girl, brought into this world merely months ago, had been taken out because of him.

'All my fault...it's...all my fault.'

Dean slid to the floor, eyes wide and unfocused as he struggled to breathe. He tried to remember his mother's soothing voice, but the sound of his panicked heart and short, choked breaths drowned out her mantra. He gripped his head tight. The world spun far too fast, maddeningly fast...why the fuck is it going so fast?

The shower water suddenly felt like daggers sinking into his skin. He heard several voices. Those of his former neighbors.

And...fire. So much fire.

He looked down at his hands, breath coming in harsh bursts as he stared down at the screaming infant in his arms. She was ablaze, searing into his own skin.

"Dean? Holy fuck, Dean!"

The daggers stopped digging themselves into his skin, the fire flickered, and suddenly a solid form eclipsed into his line of sight before he was blind again, pressed tightly against something soft and warm. He wasn't burning anymore. Not quite.

"Breathe. C'mon, in. Count to 5, Dean. Hold it...you're doing good. Exhale. 1...2...3. Do it again."

Dean felt the world slow down. Like the out of control carousel that's finally coming to a stop. Round and round...round...and...round. Until it was still once more. His vision went from triple, to double, before finally settling on the solid form of Roman Reigns.

Roman stared at him silently before reaching to the toilet, grabbing the crumpled form of his towel. Dean took it a little bit more forcefully than he wanted to, face burning as he wiped away the tears first. Hopefully the water covering his face made it impossible to tell he was crying during his breakdown. Roman hesitantly stood up and extended a hand to him.

Dean looked away, gripping the towel tight.

Roman took the sign for what it was, nodding slightly before he turned and walked away, leaving Dean by himself. It took the man a full minute to compose himself. Another three before he stood and slowly made his way out on shaky legs.

He found a folded pile of new clothes sitting on his bed when he got to his room, along with a note.

'If you still want to get out of the house, let me know. I'll be in my room if you need anything. -Ro'

Dean stared at the paper for longer than he should before he ran a hand through his damp hair. He put the clothes on and paced the room a few times. He could hole himself in the room. Roman wouldn't be able to get in this bitch if Dean really didn't want him to.

…ugh.

Dean sighed and walked out of the room, heading towards Roman's. He pushed on the cracked door, mouth opening to quietly draw his attention when he stopped short.

Roman had moved the bed aside, paintbrush in hand as he made long, elegant strokes against his bedroom wall. He hadn't even noticed Dean enter his room, grey eyes focused on each stroke from behind his constantly dropping glasses.

He seemed to anticipate that Dean would come, however, hardly stirring when Dean came up to his side, with a brush that didn't match the one in his own hand, wordlessly adding short, thick lines. Roman didn't seem to care, he continued silently painting his own side, thankfully not bothering to ask Dean something tedious like "Are you okay?" or "What was that?"

So, Dean spoke first.

"The...the apartment complex. The one that was on the news? I knew some people there. A...a friend of mine lived there. There were good people in that place. I guess...it hit me kind of hard." He muttered. It was more truth than most of what Dean had told Roman up to this point, but for some reason the truth laced lie made him cringe internally.

"I get these really bad breakdowns sometimes. Dunno what to call it, panic or anxiety," He chuckled and thumbed his nose, unconsciously smearing paint on his cheek. "I don't remember when they started happening, but they're pretty fucking pathetic."

Another lie. They started when his mother was taken from him.

Roman's hand paused, and his brows furrowed for a moment. As if he was trying to find the right words to say. He set the brush down and wiped his hands on his pants.

"I wouldn't call you pathetic. It's very serious, and I wouldn't take it lightly. A lot of people don't understand what happens during those attacks. It's easy for them to tell the sufferer that it's pathetic or that they should get over it. I don't see it that way. If you feel like it's gonna happen, just call me. Even if you need someone to just walk you through it, I got you."

Dean stared at him. Probably longer than he should. He let a small chuckle leave his lips before he turned to the tree painted on the wall.

"I came in and fucked it up." he mused, waiting for Roman to snap at him. The older man only shrugged.

"I like it. Just because something is a bit flawed instead of being smooth doesn't make it any less beautiful. I'm gonna keep it like this." Roman hummed, looking up fondly at the wall.

Dean couldn't help the hearty laugh that bubbled out of his chest.

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