Well, here we are folks, the wait is finally over and let me tell you I have STRESSED about this story (and life in general) but yep, we're back! Dean and Lauren are on the old crazy train again.

Hope you're all ready for another wild ride! Part 10 of their story (part 10 can you believe it?!) is about to get underway.

Hold onto your hats...

Lock Stock And One Smokin' Husband

Because I had grown up in rural Wisconsin, I had never been caught up in a gunfight before, since the most exciting thing to ever happen in my hometown had been the time a loose cow had wandered into the church and eaten a box of communion wafers.

Gun crime had never been part of my world and so therefore neither had being chased through a high tech building by a gang of corrupt and generally all round bad cops, who had murdered my father, shot at my husband and then forced us into hiding beneath a desk in the lab.

One hell of a Monday it was fast turning into.

Line, oops —

"Here, let me take a look at that."

Following my gaze, Dean lifted his arm up to examine the part that was missing a chunk, or which looked like it was thanks to all the oozy ickiness and the puckered up skin and the red colored lumps. I literally had no clue what those parts were supposed to be. Congealed blood?

He shrugged,

"Nah, I've had a lot worse. I mean it's basically a flesh wound."

"Uh huh," I nodded back at him, but I pulled in his bicep nevertheless and then tried to remember the process I had been talked through while at the same time trying to look suitably scared. Which wasn't too hard. I had looked that way for weeks now.

What the hell was I doing there?

Me.

Lauren Ambrose.

Because oh, had I mentioned the fact we were married? Yep. Nine weeks exactly and god it felt good. Except for the running and the having to dodge bullets part. Not that we'd been given much choice about that.

Pulling a white lab coat from a hook in the cubicle, I tore the bottom hem into a bandage sized strip and then carefully looped it around the gross and bloodied bicep as my husband scrunched his face tight then winced up a storm.

Oooh god he was good. Like Robert De Niro, but messy headed and way cuter. I tied the final knot and then sat back hopefully,

"There, is that better?"

He flexed his arm then nodded,

"Thanks."

"Anytime," I purred back, which brought his blue eyes up to lock onto my brown ones and for a second we shared a tiny moment in the gloom, which had enveloped the building when the lights had been turned off. Well, with the exception of the ginormous big searchlight which was circling out beyond us.

Dean licked his lips.

Ugh —

I loved when he did that, or played with his mouth in any way and especially with that scandalous little lizard tongue of his. Most of the time he barely knew he was doing it, but other times he knew totally.

I leaned towards him.

Take me now.

Instead however there was a clatter from behind us and he reached out and put his hand over my mouth, while using his other one to make a shushing motion, even though it was also holding tight to his gun. It was kind of strange really, because for the most part I was a pacifist and weapons of any kind scared the bejesus out of me. But my husband with a gun was a whole other story.

Hypocritical?

Yep. But holy crap he looked hot.

Taking a chance he peeked his head over the desktop and then instantly hunkered down again. In response I bit my lip,

"Is that them?"

"Uh huh," he grunted back shortly, "Which means we're gonna need to get outta here fast, before we turn into some real easy target practice. Figure you can make it back over to the door?"

I nodded,

"I mean, I think so,"

"Good."

"But what about you though?"

"Hey, forget about me here an' focus on the door."

Hmmm.

I frowned just a little bit at that line. Because frankly regardless of how terrified I was, no way would I have left my new husband behind ever, since he was pretty much all I had left in the world. But what else could I do when the call wasn't my own one and Dean certainly didn't seem too bothered anyhow, since he shifted up onto the front of his boot toes. The movement bunched up the loose material of his jeans and exposed the curve of his skinny little hip bones.

Oooh. Me likey.

Lauren, focus on the door.

Or Leah —

Because technically I was Leah Freemont now. Daughter of local murdered bad guy George Fremont, who had come to the precinct to seek out the truth and which had gone over super well with the band of crooked culprits.

Not so much.

"Hey, get goin' now."

Oops.

Dean burst up and out of our hiding place pushing me in front of him and firing off rounds, which even after three weeks spent constantly hearing them still seemed to make the loudest sound in the world. I clapped my hands over my ear drums to mute them but it made zero difference.

Bang-bang-bang.

"Princess move."

Blistering past me on those stupidly long legs of his, my husband roughly tangled up one of my hands and then used it to tow me at a breakneck pace behind him, which even in normal shoes would have been too fast, but in heels was pretty much physically impossible. I had literally begged to be allowed to wear boots, or even a nice pair of sensible kitten heels. But nope. There I was in stilettos instead. Like that was what a grieving woman would slip on rather than sneakers.

Had he called me Princess?

Bang-bang-bang.

As a crackle of returning gunfire boomed back at us, I squeaked and then launched about a foot in the air as a chunk of partition wall exploded beside me and threw bits of plasterwork into our path. Dean towed me on,

"Keep goin', keep goin'."

With the bullets still pinging and buzzing around us, we lurched over the threshold panting like mad and then turned to make our escape around the corner.

By which I mean Dean turned.

I meanwhile fell.

Or not even fell so much as fully pitched over as my ankle chose to move the opposite way to my shoe and with a cracking bone noise that sounded genuinely horrific. Hot pain washed through me and I crashed into the wall.

"Ouch, ooh crap, ooh okay, so that hurt."

"Damn it — ,"

Dean barked the curse over the bangs but then stopped and covered me over with his body to protect me from the bullets the only way he knew how. Plus on the up side it brought him in closer. So close in fact that we were smushed boobs to chest with our nose tips practically touching together and the cool mint of his gum blowing over my face. His moist little lips were tantalisingly close to me, practically crying out to be kissed and so ignoring the fact that we were caught in a gunfight I tiptoed up to meet him and then tilted my head.

Holy crap it was going to be incredible.

Or not.

Because instead a barked shout echoed out across the space and made us jump.

"Okay and cut."

"Nooo."

My plaintive little call echoed in around the studio and in response to it Dean raised a knowing looking brow and as did the other twenty guys stood behind us holding cameras and boom mikes.

Yep, we were making a film.

But by which I meant like a proper sort of action one, with a script and extras and props and that jazz. Not that I had bought it for so much as a second when Vince had called us up into his office to explain.

I had been convinced it was some sort of prank thing. Hence why I had basically laughed in his face.

"A movie?"

"Absolutely kid," Vince had beamed back at me, before steepling his fingers over his charcoal grey suit and then leaning back like it was something and nothing, which frankly to him it probably was, "I mean, the fans are pretty crazy about you newlywed lovebirds, so what better way cash in on that fact?"

"But — but I can't act."

Vince had waved an airy hand at me,

"Everyone says that."

"But I mean it," I had stressed, beginning to panic because no way could he be serious, "In high school they only let me be in one production and even then I was scenery. They did West Side Story and I was a tree. There are no trees in West Side Story. Plus I snagged the curtain on the opening night and pulled it down onto top of the chorus. The audience saw everyone in their underwear backstage."

"Perfect kid, I love it."

Vince had slapped on the desktop and then wiped his eyes free from all the laughter tears, which hadn't been the reaction I had wanted on that front. Or had even expected. I had frowned at him.

Humph.

"No one in the theatre thought it was funny. I concussed the lead actor so they called nine-one-one and they had to give the audience a refund and — ,"

"Princess take it easy."

I had shut up and blinked as somewhere beside me Dean had grazed my arm loosely and then shifted uncomfortably in the plush leather chair. Because he had been more pent up than I was. Although not because of the whole play disaster thing.

Or probably not anyway.

Not that I figured.

Because he had been pissed that we were even freaking there and with good reason too since he last time Vince had met us had been a mere two weeks before, on the night the old man had faithfully promised to look out for me before then letting me nearly get married against my will, thanks to the latest messed up brainchild of my stepmom.

I had nearly become Mrs Lauren Orton.

Ewww.

But which had therefore been the reason that Dean had clenched his fists up and then been more coherent than I had been.

Sort of.

Or maybe not but he was definitely definitely more angry.

"Oh come on. I mean are you freakin' kiddin' me with this crap? Is this some kind of twisted wedding present or some shit? Because if it is then you might wanna get us somethin' we really want. Like ten minutes with Randy Orton in a locked room with a pool cue, or how about the keys to where your demon spawn lives, an' like a flamethrower to burn her nest down or somethin'?"

By demon spawn he had meant Stephanie. Said evil stepmom.

Vince had laughed again like he had thought he was kidding, but then bizarrely not gone in for the murderous route and nor had he gone in for us turning down the movie, which had been more of a blow because after all, he was the boss. Dean had tried though and been adamant about it.

No way in hell were we starring in a film.

No chance.

It would literally be over our dead bodies —

So naturally then five short weeks later there we were, on a film set in Canada running through bullets on what was evidently our very first feature length shoot and hopefully our last too.

Vince McMahon willing.

Plus in hindsight our being out there was perfectly timed, given what had happened on Raw the week after which had nearly ruined everything and still made me turn cold. But frankly the less said about that night the better.

Not to mention the less said about that little weasel Seth.

"Great work Lauren."

Huh?

I blinked in confusion as somewhere in the real world someone said my name and then shook my head like I was clearing a fog bank before realizing it was actually the director of our film.

I cleared my throat awkwardly,

"Good work?"

"Absolutely," he nodded back keenly, pretty much ignoring Dean, who had easily been the MVP of the two of us, as anyone with a working pair of eyeballs could have seen. Or not, "Taking that tumble as you rounded the corner there really helps to highlight how scared your character is. I mean, I can tell you thought a lot about this sequence."

"You think I fell on purpose?" I spluttered in response, feeling both blindsided and weirdly kind of flattered that he would credit me with real life acting process of any sort.

But nope.

It was clumsiness.

I opened my mouth to tell him but was then beaten to it by my husband stepping in and throwing an arm around my shoulders to silence me with a hugely worryingly and very cheeky looking grin,

Uh oh.

"Oh yeah man, my girl is freakin' method," he offered out brightly, "She's been in character for weeks. In the grocery store, at the dog park an' even in the bedroom, which has made things real interestin' if you know what I mean?"

"Dean," I hissed in measures of horror as our director promptly turned nine or ten shades of hot pink,

"Oh?" he coughed,

Dean snorted,

"Oh yeah dude. I mean, between you an' me she's kinda too much, because some nights I jus' want some shuteye you know man? But then there the wife is makin' these sounds an' I know m' gonna be in for another wild evenin'."

I gaped at him,

"Dean. I do not make any sounds."

In response he reached up and gave my bra strap a twanging, but keeping his expression innocent the whole time as I launched into the air and let out a little squeak noise. In response he sighed heavily and then shrugged,

"Yep that's the one."

Ugh.

I elbowed him as hard as I could manage and then pushed him backwards before clearing my throat and compensating with what I hoped would be a charming little titter but which actually came out sort of certifiable.

Unsurprisingly perhaps.

"Oh god, please ignore him. He's kidding, totally kidding. Big kidder this one. Because I promise that I have never been a character in bedroom," I paused, "Oh, well I mean I guess there was this one time when I tried the whole nurse thing, but I wasn't very good at it and he mostly just laughed and — wow, am I still talking?"

Our director blinked rapidly, based on which I guessed his answer was yes.

Opening my mouth I went to try make things better — or knowing my luck about twenty times worse — but luckily our director chose instead to spin away from me and clap his hands loudly.

His voice sounded hoarse.

"Okay everybody, take a break for half an hour, but then I need you back so we can shoot the final scene. Oh and Dean, please remember to call her Leah."

My husband responded with a salute,

"You got it boss."

"But I'm not really insatiable," I bleated from behind them, which earned a throaty chuckle from a passing cameraman, but got zero response from our beetroot red director who was probably still busy picturing Dean and I in bed. Because that would work wonders for our professional relationship.

My husband wound an arm around my waist and then grinned,

"Final scene huh? Is that the one where we suck face after I bust in an' save you like a hero I am?"

I huffed at him,

"It was, until you thought it would be funny to tell our director I was some deviant in bed and so now in that scene you save me and we shake on it, because frankly I'm not so sure I want to kiss you right now."

Dean chuckled huskily.

Oh god. Dimples.

"Oh come on, we both know you could never say no to these lips, an' all the terrible little things they got planned for you."

Moving in closer he nuzzled himself a sneaky kissing spot beneath my brown hair where my jaw met my ear and right at the point where the skin became tender, not to mention pretty crazily responsive to his touch. I trembled but then managed to reluctantly push him backwards.

Be strong Lauren.

"Nope, I'm still mad at you. But I mean, nice try though."

"Huh?"

Dean blinked in surprise at me and I struggled to bite back a smug little smirk, before turning on my heels in a stalk of pure victory —

Which would have been great had it not been for my foot and the ankle I had ruined five minutes beforehand. I made it one step and then stopped with a hiss as someone stabbed a butcher's knife into the damage. Or possibly not but it sure felt like that.

"Ooh ouch, crap."

Dean was there in a heartbeat,

"Lauren?"

"My ankle — ,"

"You really hurt it that bad?"

"I think it might be broken," I whimpered pathetically. In response to that part he raised a wry brow, but hunkered low anyway and eased off the stiletto which I totally blamed for the probable break before moving warm pads over my ankle and rumbling loose a sentence.

"Think you can maybe move your foot?"

I wiggled it absently,

"Oh god, will Vince be angry? Because a broken ankle is totally going to hold up the shoot, which is going to cost him a bunch of money and — ,"

Dean stood back up,

"Hey."

"Oh no," I carried on, "He — he's going to fire me isn't he? So I won't be able to travel with you and Roman anymore and I'll have to find another job back in Vegas and we won't see each other and our marriage will fall apart."

"Princess, take it easy huh?"

Dean cupped my cheek bones and as usual the gaze of his blue eyes shut me up. I had married a savant or a muscle bound warlock.

I blinked,

"It's broken isn't it?"

"Mildly sprained."

"Oh."

I frowned and then grunted a little bit at that part, since the wind had been somewhat taken out of my sails. Honestly I had been expecting the news to be terrible, but on the plus side my bewilderment made my husband sort of snort and then spin around to hunker down in front of me with his arms held out backwards,

"C' mon clumsy, jump on, before you end up freakin' breakin' your other ankle, or a meteorite hits you or some crap like that."

He was offering me a lift and so slipping my other heel off and then collecting up both of the stupid things in my hand, I clambered aboard and let him hitch me up higher before turning to carry me over the set and back out into the lot beyond the studio where a sea of movie trailers sat glittering in the sun.

I was in a movie?

I still couldn't believe it, or really much of any of the thirteen past months, considering that I'd been drugged and kidnapped not once, but two times and become the first woman to score a commentary post, not to mention that I had found the true love of my existence.

Married him too.

His head was bobbing around in front and so absently I carded my fingers through his tangle, rubbing them backwards to a point on his skull where there was still a tiny bump, but not as big as it had been.

Dean grumbled knowingly,

"Princess — ,"

"Just checking," I whispered back as I rooted like a hungry little monkey at his cranium, "In case it maybe popped back up."

"Nope, m' fine baby."

I bit my lip,

"Ugh, I know you are, but sometimes I can see it all over again and I can picture you just lying there," I broke off at that point, since it was bad enough having to remember thing, let alone having to actually say it.

Seth had stamped on his head.

Literally. And not only that but he had stamped it through cinder blocks which he had set up to murder the older brother he'd once loved, while Kane had held me back begging and crying which had made little difference.

"Seth please — please no."

He had done it anyway and concussed Dean so badly that for nearly a week he'd had no clue who he was, or who I was or that he was even a wrestler. The only thing he had remembered was his need to kill Seth, which he had ranted on repeat mode over and over as I had shushed him repeatedly and lulled him back into sleep.

I had never been so scared or so helpless or so powerless and so yep, from time to time I still liked to check the bump.

No bigger than last time.

Good.

"Nah c' mon Princess," Dean hitched me higher as he turned us through the maze of showbiz trailers to our own, which I had never been able to pick out but which he knew instinctively through husbandly ESP, "It's gonna take more for that weasel to finish me."

Which, by weasel he clearly meant Seth.

"But I had to lock all the doors," I reminded him, "Because you kept on saying that you needed to go home and then the one time I forgot you went into the street naked and tried to hail a cab."

Trampling up the steps to our little movie bolthole he grunted in what was probably a measure of pride, since even though he remembered precisely none of what had happened — or me rushing out behind him with a towel and babbling multiple apologies to our neighbors — he still thought it was funny.

Yeah. Me not so much.

Letting us inside he carried me over to the couch bed and then lowered me down onto it so that I bounced on the cushions.

Oof —

He turned back,

"Princess, look I know that shit scared you, an' it fuckin' eats me up that I put you through that, but I promise you an' I mean promise you m' good now, an' m' gonna kill him for you."

Once again he meant Seth.

Or possibly Kane, or even both of them potentially, which I was more than on board with. He leaned in and pecked my lips before launching back up and clapping his hands briskly,

"Now then Mrs. Ambrose, let's get you some fuckin' ice."

Oooh. Mrs. Ambrose.

I hummed happily at that bit and then smiled as he thumped on the refrigerator door and tried to catch the avalanche of frozen cubes that tumbled out at him into a tea towel.

"Whoa. Oh holy fuck."

Darn it but he was cute.

"Barbara texted me earlier," I put in somewhat absently as I swung butt round and propped up my ankle which certainly felt broken, or at least to my mind it did anyway, "Another house down the street was broken into two nights ago, so the police have been there busy knocking on doors."

In reply to me Dean cursed which I assumed was the ice thing but then turned out to be not,

"Fuck, I mean, what is that? Like the third fuckin' break in this month?"

"Fourth," I shrugged back, "Which is why we're super lucky we've got Boomer to protect the house, because okay, even though he would probably lick a burglar since he loves everybody, he still looks big and tough. Kind of like you."

I grinned up at him winningly as Dean crossed the space and then raised a teasing brow,

"You want this ice or not?"

"Yes please," I nodded back at him and he blew a little snort out then placed the compress on my bone, which made me hiss briefly but then sink back in approval because wow that felt nice. I tossed the stilettos across the room, "Take that stupid heels."

Dean winced at me,

"Uh, Princess, pretty sure you still need those for the big finale."

"Damn."

He rolled his blue eyes and then parked himself beside me, before leaning in closer and half pinning me down, since I was laid on my back gazing up at him helplessly. He smoothed back my hair,

"It's an important scene too, so m' thinkin' we should probably rehearse it or somethin'."

Hmmm.

I chuckled up at him,

"You mean the kissing scene?"

"Yep."

Before I could even blink he had his lips planted over me, in the smooch we had both been denied back on set and which he clearly planned on making up for and then some since it nearly knocked my socks off. Metaphorically of course. Throwing my arms up I pulled him in closer as our lips slid hungrily in a series of heavy pecks and nibbled and clashed and sucked at one another and as our tongues began to probe and then tangle hot and wet. Dean slid his hands towards my hips and I giggled as the lightly ghosting touch tickled over my skin and then blew out a sigh of pure and total contentment,

Making a movie.

What a terrible life.

Okay, I'm going to be updating this story once a week, so if you're interested, please earmark Thursdays in your diary for your regular dose of Dean and Lauren fun.

It's good to be back!