Not many people would know it at first glance, but Dean used to be a ballet dancer. A fantastic one, actually. He still did dance sometimes, when the mood struck and he had an evening to himself.

But he wasn't in a habit of abusing his already rough feet to fit into pointe shoes for a routine that truly would be perceived as strange for a man to perform. But it didn't matter to him, he was never into it for a profession or fame.

Or rather, he was never given a chance. A ruptured Achilles's tendon and shattered left ankle at the age of 17 sought to that. He could still perform a little, especially if he only wore traditional ballet slippers and for a short period of time, but pointe shoes provided him the weightlessness, the dreaminess that drew him to ballet as a child. He lacked the grace and elegance he once had, the only facade of is life that actually ever had any in it.

He could have been seen as a prodigy of sorts, only having access to ballet lessons because the local community center that his deadbeat mother dropped him off at had a volunteer every other weekend that taught it.

The woman saw his promise, saw all he had to offer dancing with worn, secondhand shoes he had managed to rummage out of a thrift store. He was only 6 then, but she still saw it. In hindsight Dean wished she saw the bullying he would endure from being dubbed a 'poor, dancing fag' in his adolescent years and the injury nine years later that would take him out of the game.

Dean was supposed to be performing on a grand stage for young, promising talent dancing on their own or with partners to audiences that came far and wide, all over the state of Ohio. Some recruiters were from New York City, too, looking for the next headliner for their promising musicals and dance performances.

He looked out of place, the only male performer there and his well-worn shoes and raggedy hair that his mentor tried to tame for nearly half an hour to no avail so wrong amongst the pretty fills of the girls around him. The looks that they gave him, same as the boys that shoved his face in toilets and ganged up on him after school. Icey glares that he shrugged off in time for his performance.

It was a beautiful piece, only accompanied by a single violin, meant to simulate a fight more than a dance. Dressed in nothing but a black leotard, a simple black sash hanging off his waist, wrist tape, and beige pointe shoes meant to simulate bare feet.

He was always a lithe individual, skin strewn over taught, slender muscles of his maturing body. Tall for his age, tall for any age really, and the curvature of his spine and the thinness of his waist that contrasts his broad shoulders. It all added to the beautiful and sensual, but powerful imagery his performance entailed.

It was the first and last time he would receive a standing ovation, bowing his head lowly as his heart hammered away at his chest. The crowd loved it, some of the recruiters had tears in their eyes. His mentor gave him a small bouquet of roses and he hugged him so tightly he thought his lungs might explode.

High off of adrenaline and excited from his performance, he stumbled into the smoke-ridden house he was forced to call home. Dean didn't bother changing out of his performing clothes, simply swapping his shoes out for basic converses. Dizzy with excitement and eagerness, hoping to show his mother the medal he had won, he was instead greeted with her current husband slash drug dealer slash asshole. They'd been together since Dean was 14, making sure any instance where he had to stay in the house for longer than 5 minutes was hellish.

Tonight was an exceptionally bad night, however.

A lot of it was hazy, fuzzy around the edges and only got worse and harder to recall as he Dean got older. Must've been from his head beginning banged into the kitchen table, his mother screaming in horror but doing truly nothing to help. He vaguely remembered being dragged up the stairs, being slammed against a few walls as he tried to kick and scream but his throat was being clenched and his legs were so exhausted from performing. "Faggot!" The man screamed over and over, burning the word into his brain.

And then he remembered the fall. Being knocked out of the second story of their skanky house. He landed on his feet, completely shattering one of his ankles and his biggest dream.

But he supposed that was in the past now. Thirteen years to be precise and Dean realized a new dream, having opened up a bookstore with a small loan from his previous mentor, Lita. He bought the entire building with what she had given him, living out of the modest upstairs apartment right above where he worked each day.

It was the only one in the small town he had settled into, so it ensured he had steady business. Enough to pay Lita back, enough to eat, and enough to live. He couldn't ask for more, really, although he considered himself a tad on the lonely side.

Then again, Dean Ambrose was almost always a loner. Always doing things solo and cool because it was how he was, he learned not to trust anyone or get too close to them. He still was apprehensive around Lita, even, because in his mind he wore out his welcome with her the day he got injured.

Being such a loner, either by practice or nature, Dean was accustomed to using the gym late at night when others had long since gone home. Tonight was a special night, though, because Dean wouldn't be running on the treadmill or lifting weights.

No, Dean had every intention of dancing tonight. One of those rare moods, something deep bubbled in his stomach as he turned on the lights in the gym's modest dance hall. One wall was made of mirrors, the other of glass so anyone walking by could look in. Another good reason to hit the gym late.

Then he placed his boom box and yes, he owned a boom box that took cassette tapes, and turned it on. It was a simple classical compilation, something he would only ever listen to while dancing. He shrugged off his hoodie and began to toe off his boots and socks. Left in nothing but a light pair of sweatpants that were a tad too short for him, hovering right above his ankles, and a tight tank top Dean began to drift into the music. He eased the ballet slippers onto his feet, not daring to try out with pointe after being out of practice for months upon months, and let the music guide him.

It was sloppy as all hell, obviously not worthy of a standing ovation and lacked in form and poise. But he still felt free, eyes sliding shut as the symphonies pulled his body along. He was so lost in the dance that he didn't dare open his eyes for several minutes, not wishing to shatter the movements. And Dean would have kept going, if he didn't feel eyes on him.

He landed slowly, feet flat on the ground as he made direct eye contact with a leering, wide silver gaze. The man was tall, possibly taller than Dean with mile wide shoulders and bronze skin. He had what Dean presumed was long hair tied back into a bun, a tribal tattoo covering one arm and shining with sweat.

This man had been watching his private performance, for how long he didn't know, but he seemed absolutely enraptured, eyes wide in wonder in a manner Dean hadn't seen in thirteen years. If Dean was being honest with himself, he had become enraptured that night as well.