this anger tasted different. summoned up from somewhere deep enough that it came unnamed. unweathered and QUIET. reserved because his options were limited and despite an awareness that he’d have gone tip - to - tip with a beast one - armed for the mess on the screen; dean knew it’d not happen tonight. not under bright lights. not in the dimmed garage outside of the stadium. hands proverbially tied ( if the boss had any shred of sense, that’d turn literal ), he sat, waiting, instead. stewing. s e e t h i n g. breathed life into a contempt he’d not felt in months —— the reminder why he’d kept his distance. passion wasn’t so easily unseated.
and neither was he.
not when the camera crew faded in and out of the room. not when the mics started coming, one after another. they’d not get their reels from him —— met with a silence only the occasional smack of gum could interrupt. his lingering wasn’t for them. he didn’t feed off of unwarranted attention. didn’t play that game.
like he didn’t chase down a bloodied hound the second the commotion started. a flock of vulture gathered to pick away at a carcass. by the look of him in the short - lived glances dean’d bothered to shoot, it wasn’t far from the truth. like he’d been hit by a semi and dragged for miles. gone nine - rounds with ali. still standing, whether it was from pride or a wilting will that’d only last so long . . . it didn’t matter. wasn’t his concern. blood wouldn’t be unbled for his rush to coddle or console. wouldn’t change the outcome he was aware enough to remember the taste of. a LOSS that still tainted his thoughts. strung them out, wild and uncoordinated.
just as quick as the ruckus had come, it’d gone. faded back into the staticed white noise he’d come to learn the comfort of. a nothingness to sink his teeth into while he waited. moved to a locker room he’d not been invited to. sat, slouched, in a chair that wasn’t his. rifled through a bag that wasn’t, as well. sought out the pack of gum he knew he’d find in the front pocket before helping himself. call it support. call it concern. his taxi’d been dismissed for whatever this was going to be. an ill - advised surprise. nothing to make up for the missed calls and texts ignored in the dozens. too busy staring up at the sky to pretend he had something to say.
slouched down, head back, eyes closed for the wait —— roman’d not been holed up getting pieced back together long enough for dean to doze. door parting with a creak that cracked eyes and sent a pale stare, cornered, to watch his entrance. staggered. as cleaned up as he’d let them get him before, he speculated, deciding he was done. deciding that licking his wounds in private would serve him better. thought he’d find a solace dean sat perched atop the corpse of, already.
“ ‘ey uce. ” as casual as the arm tucked behind his head, entertaining nonchalance. “ ain’t you lookin’ like a butcher’s wet dream. ”
@sandcastiekingdcms ◦ s.c. !!







