#mayanangel

It had been coming. The words thrum inside Roman’s head like a drum, beating mercilessly against his skull. He can already see it, the flurry of questions that will come in the next few weeks, but this is the one he knows he will be asked the most. By his co-workers, by the announcers, by the fans. Did he see this coming?

Everyone will expect him to say no, he had no idea this was coming. That this came out of nowhere, that he had never entertained the thought of their broken brotherhood. That he’s just shocked as everyone else is. Which isn’t exactly a lie, he is shocked and stunned and bewildered. But not because he hadn’t seen it coming.

He had known it was coming. Hadn’t known when, hadn’t known how, but he had known that eventually it would be inevitable. That they would someday be no more, a simple footnote in history.

The truth, though, the deep dark truth that no one will ever know (not even Dean, especially not Dean), is that he had seen it coming, but that he would have put his money on Dean being the one to do it.

Not Seth.  Not Seth.

He feels guilt, an immense guilt that sits like a boulder on his lungs, choking any words he could possibly say as he sits in the passenger seat of Dean’s rental. He can see Dean’s hands out of the corner of his eye, clenching the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white within minutes of starting the car. Like a ticking time bomb (it is not the first time he’s thought of Dean as such; it will not be the last), but he remains quiet. No singing along with the radio, no rattling off random factoids that only Dean could possibly know, no drumming of his fingers along the wheel. He’s quiet, and he never turns his head to look at Roman.

Just as well. Roman has nothing to say. No soft, soothing words, no promises to either figure this all out or exact revenge. It’s too early for promises, not when they both quite don’t understand what exactly happened, and besides, it’s obvious that promises don’t mean much anyway.

His back is on fire, and he shifts in his seat again, trying to find some way to sit without brushing up against the fresh bruises. Admittedly he got the better end of the deal, only hit with a chair twice by Seth (his brother, his best friend, his…no, that’s a road best left untraveled). He had been merciless with Dean, hitting him over and over again, smashing Dean’s face against the chair with his foot (like it had been just business with Roman, but personal with Dean, and he honestly doesn’t know which one is worse). He sneaks a glance at Dean to see if he’s holding his ribs, because surely a couple have been cracked, but Dean is sitting upright without any difficulty.

Of course he’s sitting up. It’s not his ribs that are cracked.

He lets out a sigh, and Dean still doesn’t look at him. Lost in his thoughts, no doubt. He wonders if Dean is replaying each moment in his head, like a bad B movie that you want to turn off but can’t find the remote to do so. Roman’s lucky in that he had his back turned and didn’t have to see the look on Seth’s face, the coldness in his eyes (he can’t even imagine such a thing). He’s also glad he didn’t have to see the confusion in Dean’s eyes, the realization setting in on his face.  He knows that at some point, he’ll have to watch a clip of it, but at least it’ll be the first time he sees it. Dean, though, will be reliving it, as he has every single betrayal since the day he was born. Why the universe insists on making Dean relive his greatest traumas, Roman will never understand. As if he could ever forget any of them.

He will certainly never forget this one. Neither will Roman.

He almost thinks about asking Dean for survival tips. For as strong as he is, and as many challenges as he’s faced over the years, he’s never had something like this happen. This is beyond being challenged, even beyond being stabbed in the back. He has never been betrayed like this, never had his very foundation, his sense of self violated like this. Seth has taken everything Roman is and smashed it to pieces, for no apparent reason.

That’s what he doesn’t understand (who is he kidding, he doesn’t understand any of this). It would be one thing if they had lost the last two matches, if Evolution had been winning the war. But those assholes weren’t winning the war, they were 0 for 2, so why in God’s name would Seth choose now to stab his brothers in the heart?

It’s almost like he was waiting for exactly the right moment, when Dean and Roman were at their most dominating career wise, their most secure personally, to pull the proverbial rug from underneath them.

Of all the times for this to happen, for all the moments that he could have chosen, it just had to be this exact moment in time. He couldn’t have done it sooner, when it wouldn’t have left such a dark, ugly stain. No, it had to be right now.

After he made Roman feel things he had never felt before.

After Dean was finally learning how to be a real person instead of a monster.

They’re quiet as they walk into the hotel room, or limping more in Roman’s case. Dean’s walking, but he has his hand on his chest like if he removes it, his heart will fall out and shatter to the floor. He turns to Roman once the door shuts, a faraway, almost dazed look in his eyes as he nods to himself. “I’ll get some towels,” he mutters, more to himself than to Roman. It’s the first words they’ve spoken since they left the arena.

Roman sits down as Dean wanders into the bathroom, and it is the quietest he has ever heard Dean being. He always makes a racket when he’s in the bathroom, slamming doors shut, singing to himself, cursing loudly when he inevitably stubs a toe or rams his knee in the counter.

Now he’s quiet, like a ghost.

He walks back into the room, towels in hand, head hung low. He says nothing as he places them down next to Roman and starts to dig through Roman’s bag for some disinfectant. They had stopped at a Walgreens late last night on the way to Indianapolis, Seth insisting that they needed some to make sure the welts on Roman’s back didn’t get infected. They had sat in the backseat while Dean drove, Seth rubbing it into each mark, his hands gentle, apologizing profusely for both the pain and the coldness of the cream, and the way he had frowned at each welt, the guilt in his eyes when Roman had turned back to look at him like each bruise had been Seth’s fault…

He grits his teeth as if to push the memory out of mind. No point on dwelling on the past, or wondering if everything had all been a lie. Obviously it was, otherwise they wouldn’t be here right now. But God, it is taking every ounce of strength he has not to run through each and every day, every moment, trying to discern if this was recent, or if Seth had been planning this the very day Dean went to him with the idea for the Shield. Fuck, if he’s been planning this since day one…

“Can you get your shirt?” He’s ripped from his thoughts by the sound of Dean’s voice, so small, so monotone. Dean Ambrose should never, ever sound like this. Dean Ambrose should always sound like he’s full of piss and vinegar, loud and brash and dripping with that crazy mix of confidence and insanity.

“Yeah.” It hurts like a bitch to raise his arms, but Roman gets his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. He tries not to flinch when Dean’s hands brush against his neck, but he had his back turned to the man he would have ripped his own heart out for (the only man who’s ever held that distinction), and look how that turned out.

He has only been able to acknowledge this to himself for less than a month.

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs. He reaches out and takes Roman’s hair, gently pushing it over his shoulder. “Need it out of the way.”

Roman nods, and winces at the first sting of the cream against his skin. Dean makes a low noise, almost a ssh, and he’s trying so hard to be gentle. But gentle is not a concept that he’s familiar with. He never grew up with gentle hands on his shoulders, loving hands ruffling his hair, caring hands holding him close. But he tries. Dammit, he’s trying, and that should be enough.

He only started trying because of Seth, though.

Roman bites his lip to hold in a grunt of pain, but at this point, he doesn’t know if it’s the sting of the disinfectant or the sting of betrayal that hurts the most. The room is silent, save the sound of Dean’s breathing, and Roman wonders where Seth is now. If he’s riding in one of those fancy limousines that Hunter likes to ride around in, if he’s drinking champagne with Hunter and Orton right now, if he’s replaying those moments over in his head and laughing, smiling that bright smile that Roman used to work to bring out on his face. How pleased with himself is he right now? How much is Hunter praising him right now for so completely fooling the crazy psycho and the dumb brute?

The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. How appropriate; Seth loves that movie.

“Almost done.” Roman nods, but he’s not really here right now. He doesn’t feel like he’s in his own body, each breath he takes uncomfortable, each beat of his heart unfamiliar. He’s brought back down to earth by the feel of Dean’s breath on his skin, suddenly closer than he was before. He braces himself, for what, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t expect for Dean to wrap his arm loosely around his neck, or how Dean presses his cheek against Roman’s, his breath shaky.

He’s not some soulless, empty monster, he remembers Seth telling him in the beginning, before their debut when he was regretting joining this group led by this crazy ass bastard. There’s good inside him. He just doesn’t know it.

He reaches up, placing his hand over Dean’s, closing his eyes and trying to accept the comfort being offered. He can’t articulate how much it means to him, that Dean is trying to look past his own pain when he’s so used to being consumed by it, so he doesn’t say anything. He lets his actions speak for him, leaning into Dean’s touch and squeezing his hand, to reassure him that he knows, God, he knows. For once, they’re not in competition with each other. For once, they both acknowledge that the weight of their grief is equal, the pieces of their broken hearts are equally jagged and the empty holes inside of themselves are equal in size.

After what feels like an eternity, Dean pulls away, and when Roman opens his eyes, his lungs burn at the sight of Dean behind him, looking so small, so fragile. He’s trying so valiantly to put on a brave face, but he’s never been a great actor. He’s never been able to conceal the storm that thrashes inside him. Roman used to think that he was the only person in the world constantly on the verge of being buried by the intensity of his emotions, until he met Dean. And right now, he’s seconds away from breaking, and no glue will be able to put him back together. Not now, when the man who told him that he had light inside him snuffed that light out.

Roman may want to crawl into bed and never come out, but one look at Dean’s shattered, broken face and Roman knows he can’t run away to lick his own wounds, as much they hurt. He and Seth have worked so hard, so fucking hard, to show Dean that he is more than a black hole, more than a succubus that exists only to gorge on darkness, and he can’t let all that hard work go to waste. He reaches behind, tracing his fingers along Dean’s cheekbone, trying not to choke when Dean grabs his hand and presses it to his face. It almost doesn’t feel right; Seth is the one who should be here, anchoring Dean back into reality. Seth’s the one with the grace, with the intuition to look at Dean and just know, instinctively, exactly what to do to soothe Dean. He’s the one who could put out the fire before it started.

He doubts that Seth is feeling any remorse over what he’s done, but he selfishly hopes that Seth lies awake tonight, haunted by nightmares of the fire he’s ignited. Because eventually, that monster they tried so hard to tame inside of Dean is going to come out, and it’s going to be hungry.

But tonight, the monster is dormant, and there is only Dean.  Poor, sad Dean, who is clinging to Roman like he’s going to float away if he lets go. He shifts so they’re facing each other, lifting his other hand and placing it on the other side of Dean’s face, cradling him as Dean closes his eyes and takes in a sharp inhale of breath. He’s shaking, and before Roman can stop himself, he grabs Dean’s shoulders and pulls him close, wrapping one arm around Dean’s back and cradling the back of his neck with his other hand. It’s the most intimate they’ve ever been, and a small part of him can’t help but wish, traitorously, that it’s Seth instead. He hates himself for it, but oh, he wishes it was Seth.

The most tragic part, though, is that Roman’s not the only one wishing it was Seth.

Roman might be a quiet man, but he’s not dumb. He’s always seen a lot more than people give him credit for, and he could see it the very first day that Dean walked into FCW that he was completely, utterly, obsessively, fatally in love with Seth. Dean didn’t get signed to FCW for the fame and the fortune; he followed Seth there. When Dean approached him with an offer to join him and storm the main roster, he wasn’t surprised in the least that he had approached Seth first. He similarly wasn’t surprised when the two of them had been in a bar one night, talking about another one of Seth’s crazy antics, and Dean had drunkenly proclaimed with softness in his eyes that the world was just now starting to get a glimpse of how amazing Seth was. And when Seth had told him the story of how Dean had approached him with an impassioned speech about how WWE was never going to give him a shot to be the Man and how much of a crime that would be, Roman had no doubt in his mind that Dean’s feelings for Seth weren’t that of a brother.

But Roman had also thought that Seth had felt the same way. He spoke so highly of Dean, always telling Roman to watch Dean carefully, study his moves, his mannerisms. He gushed constantly over Dean’s way of getting under his opponents’ skin, practically swooned every time Dean held a microphone. He always laughed the loudest at Dean’s lame jokes, pushed him so hard in the gym and cheered him on at every turn. And he had been so, so proud when Dean gave up his vices and started living better.

Once Roman had finally figured out how he felt about Seth, and had finally come to terms with it, he had vowed he would take it to the grave, because there was no way that Seth could feel a tenth for him what he felt for Dean. Not that Roman blamed him; once he was able to get past the initial craziness, Dean was magnetic.  Besides, even though the envy would sometimes choke him, he didn’t want to take the only good thing Dean had ever been given in his life. He loves Dean, sometimes happily, sometimes warily. Not like he loved…no, loves Seth, but he does love Dean. And he wants Dean to be happy, even if it had meant watching Seth be the sun in someone else’s sky instead of his own.

But it was all for naught, and he realizes now that he is the only person in the world who has ever loved Dean. And fuck, the idea of such a thing and the responsibility that it entails is downright terrifying.

Dean lets out a choke, and Roman slides his hand up into Dean’s hair, running his fingers through the strands like a mother comforts her frightened child. He’s still shaking, and he loops his arms around Roman’s neck, each breath exhaled faster than the one before it. He’s on the verge of another panic attack (no one really knows how much Dean agonizes over everything, how even the smallest of things can send him into a terrified panic), and that was another one of the things that Seth had handled so elegantly. He always stopped them before they paralyzed Dean, and Roman can hear the silent plea that won’t ever, ever slip past Dean’s lips. Make it better, make it better, please make it better.

He cannot make it better. Nothing is ever going to make it matter. But he can make it hurt just a little less, so before he can stop himself, before he can question himself or chastise himself, he pulls back just enough to press a soft, almost fleeting kiss to Dean’s lips.

And at that, the entire world stops spinning. The room seems to be frozen in time, and Dean goes completely, utterly still. Roman pulls away, searching Dean’s face for even the smallest signal to back off. He doesn’t know if Seth was an exception or if there have been other men in Dean’s life before, and he doesn’t ask, because even though this is completely, one hundred percent about Seth, it’s imperative to pretend otherwise. Dean looks shocked, his mouth open in confusion, and maybe he really didn’t see it before now. Roman has felt so exposed, so transparent with Seth in the past few months, but maybe Dean truly didn’t see it, too blinded by his own love for Seth to see that Seth had been collecting hearts like a hobby.

But he knows now, and he’s searching Roman’s face for what, Roman can’t tell. For trepidation, for regret, for guilt, maybe. It dawns on him that he could stop this right now with the right word. He could apologize and tell Dean that he was just trying to stop the panic attack before it started. He could blame it on the lack of sleep in the past twenty-four hours, he could blame it on a concussion. But instead he says nothing, letting Dean find whatever it is he’s looking for. He licks his lips before tentatively reaching out, pressing his thumb to the corner of Roman’s mouth. Like he’s testing the waters, not wanting to dive in before he gets confirmation that he’s not going to live to regret it. Roman doesn’t blame him a bit, and just when he thinks that Dean’s too traumatized for this, the pieces seem to click in his head and he closes the distance, pressing his lips against Roman’s.

Roman doesn’t melt into the kiss, not like he would if it were Seth. But he presses back anyway, carefully, as gently as he can muster considering his head and heart are a total mess right now. Dean doesn’t seem to be able to muster much more either, but that’s okay, it’s still good. He threads his fingers through Roman’s hair, and that feels even better, the slide of Dean’s nails making his scalp tingle a bit. He slides his hands down Dean’s shoulders to the small of his back, the heat radiating from Dean’s shirt enough to remind him that this isn’t a bizarre, fucked up dream.

It’s real, Dean’s here, he’s not running away into the darkness again, he’s trying, he’s trying so damn hard not to run, and Roman feels a surge of emotion swell up inside him, threatening to burst out at the seams. It’s a mix of pride and relief and longing, and he may have started this because Dean needs it, but he needs it too.

The next kiss is longer, and when Dean parts his mouth against his, Roman immediately follows suit and slides his tongue into Dean’s mouth. He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t want to breathe, he wants Dean to swallow him whole. Dean’s breath is hot against his face, and he scoots closer, clutching Roman’s neck in a vice grip. For a moment, Roman wonders if Dean’s going to choke him, provide the mercy killing he’s secretly wishing for. But he lets go, and Roman tries not to be disappointed.

It’s not like Dean can read minds. If he could, he would have stopped this. He would have told Roman, not trusting himself to say the right words and do the right things to get Seth to stay, but he would he have told Roman, who would say the right words and do the right things to keep Seth here.

Make him stay. Yeah, like anyone could get Seth Rollins, the most stubborn person to exist in the history of humanity, to do something he doesn’t want to do. Seth is a meteor; when his mind is made up, no power on earth can stop him from his course. It was one of the things Roman, and Dean begrudgingly, loved most about him.

No, nothing was going to make Seth change his mind. No mind games from Dean, no motivating speeches from Roman, no begging or pleading from either of them was going to make Seth stay.

Seth walks his own path. A miracle that he stayed with them this long, really.

But Dean’s here, and when Roman slides his hands down to grasp him by the hips, he makes the most delicious noise, a soft, breathless little gasp that makes the hair on the back of Roman’s neck stand up. The air in the room is stifling, but Roman doesn’t pull back, and he doesn’t let Dean pull back either. Using his grip on Dean’s hips, Roman pulls him into his lap, surprised by how Dean willingly lets him. He digs his knees into Roman’s hips, and rocks himself forward.

Oh.  This is surprising. He’s not sure why, but he didn’t expect this. He knows they’re both hurting, they both need to be reminded that they’re not alone, but he had thought, perhaps naively, that a kiss would suffice. Not that he’s complaining, the weight of Dean in his lap and the tangle of Dean’s hands in his hair and the way he’s panting into Roman’s mouth feels so good. Better than he ever would have imagined.

That’s not exactly true. He has imagined this, many, many times. First thing he wakes up in the morning, in the shower, in the car, right before he falls asleep, when he’s sleeping. He’s imagined it a million times. Just never with Dean, though.

But it’s like that song from the 70’s, that cheesy one that he used to hear all the time on his dad’s record player. If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with. He always thought that song was dumb as fuck, but he gets it now.

So he dives right in, rocking his hips up to meet Dean’s, and the friction is incredible. Dean gasps, and he pulls back from the kiss, his eyes wide and confused. Like he can’t believe that Roman would want this, that he would want Dean, and his heart breaks a little more if possible.

Underneath the cocky swagger and the terrifying iciness of Dean Ambrose lies a small, sad boy, a little scrap of a thing who’s never been chosen, who’s never been loved and cannot fathom a world in which he has those things. Tonight Seth stabbed that poor little boy right in the heart and laughed in his face as he pulled the knife upward, gutting him from chest to throat.

Seth didn’t choose you, he wants to tell Dean. But he didn’t choose me, either. And I choose you. I choose you, I choose you…

He doesn’t say it. He takes a much needed breath, places his hands on Dean’s face, and pulls him down. Renews with the kiss with a fervor, and Dean melts against him, a soft choke spilling from his mouth as he tightens his legs around Roman’s hips. Finding a rhythm isn’t easy; Dean slides forward when Roman pulls back, both of them tilt their head into the kiss at the wrong time so all they get is teeth. Roman’s not surprised, he and Dean have never clicked seamlessly. They’ve always had to work extra hard to meet the other half way.

Not like it was with Seth. Everything was so easy with Seth, from teaming with him to laughing at the same jokes to even finishing each other’s sentences sometimes. It had been so, so fucking easy to slide in next to him and stand at his side. Roman’s never had that with anyone else before.

Dean’s starting to get frustrated, grunting to himself when they both tilt their head at the same time and end up smashing their noses against each other’s. The idea of this ending right now is not one that Roman’s willing to entertain, so he pulls back, lying on his side and grabbing Dean’s shirt. “C’mere,” he murmurs, pulling Dean onto his side. Silently Dean scoots closer, hands on Roman’s shoulders as he throws his leg around Roman’s waist. There’s no space between them now, which is great, this is exactly what Roman wants.

They kiss again, and for some reason, it’s a lot easier this time around. They finally fall into a rhythm, matching each other thrust for thrust. But it’s slow, like neither of them wants this to end. Roman hopes it never ends, whatever’s happening now and whatever it is he has with Dean. He slides his hands into the back pockets of Dean’s jeans, using his grip to pull Dean closer, and he gasps against Dean’s mouth at the steady rise of pleasure swirling in his gut. He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes long enough to see Dean’s clenched shut, eyebrows knitted, and he lets out a noise, the beginning of a word that dies off into a moan.

He wonders if Dean was going to call him Seth. He doesn’t begrudge him. If he could speak, he’d be whispering Seth’s name, too.

How pathetic. They’re both pathetic.

The realization doesn’t make him stop, though. It should, and how sad is it that it’s not that he feels bad about using Dean (which he does, but Dean is using him, too), but he feels like he’s betraying Seth? He doesn’t owe Seth shit, before and especially not now. But falling into someone else’s arms feels like a betrayal of his love for Seth. Like he’s making a mockery of his struggle to acknowledge that he had fallen in love with a man, and his struggle to accept that just because he felt this way now didn’t invalidate what made him who he was.

He tries to remind himself that he owes Seth nothing. Not his trust, not his devotion, especially not his love.

He does owe Dean, at the very least his attention. Dean didn’t stab him in the back, and even when they were at each other’s throats, he was always, always honest about it. The thought that Dean Ambrose, dirty, rotten no-good Dean Ambrose, has more honor than Seth Rollins, the beautiful golden boy of the indies, is one he would have never considered before tonight. But it’s true, and if anyone deserves Roman’s trust and his devotion and his love, it’s Dean.  Amazingly, it’s Dean.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by a groan, a deep, guttural groan that seems to come from the bottom of Dean’s chest. “Don’t stop,” he gasps, sliding his hands up to hold Roman’s face, his eyes clouded with lust and pain and determination. He rolls his hips faster and faster, the drag of his cock against Roman’s almost painful. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop…”

Not that Roman could stop, even if he wanted to. His body, bruised and battered and tortured as it is, is desperate for pleasure, for any kind of relief. And the barrier of clothing is too much, so he slides his hand around to the front of Dean’s jeans, grabbing his belt and fumbling to undo it. It’s uncoordinated, and Dean isn’t helping with the way he arches his hips into Roman’s hand, but he gets the belt undone anyway. Suddenly Dean tenses, almost unconsciously, like he doesn’t know whether to melt into the touch or run away screaming.

He doesn’t run. Unlike some people…

Dean’s apparently not so lost inside his own head, though, reaching out and swiftly undoing Roman’s jeans. Like he’s trying to remind Roman that he’s here, and don’t think about Seth, don’t think about Seth, don’t fucking think about Seth.  Maybe he’s trying to remind himself, too.

They fumble a bit, both of them trying to slide their hands into the other’s pants at the same time. Always a competition, (maybe some things truly don’t change) but Roman pulls back and lets Dean go first. He bites back a groan at the feel of Dean’s hand on his cock, cupping him through his briefs. The grip is so assured, he wonders if Dean’s done this before. But he doesn’t think about it for long, tilting his hips up to meet Dean’s hand. Dean moves agonizingly slow, rubbing Roman’s dick like he’s trying to permanently leave a mark. Like Roman’s his now.

And he is. This, he truly didn’t see coming, but there’s no denying that he is now Dean’s. And Dean is his.

He groans at that, the thought sending shivers up his spine, and he grabs Dean’s leg, clenching denim between his fingers because the pressure is so much, he has to let it out somehow. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so tired, or his heart is completely broken, or Dean is just that talented, but it feels so good. Too good, and he can feel that too familiar tightening in his groin, that tell-tale heat flushing his face. He looks up at Dean, who’s just staring at him, and tries not to shudder or recoil from the intense gleam in his eyes.

This close, he realizes that Dean has pretty eyes (too blue, a voice whispers to him, they’re too blue). He suspects Dean’s thinking the same thing about him; not the right color, too light, not dark enough. But neither of them says it out loud, and Dean slides his hand underneath the waistband of Roman’s briefs and strokes him with a firm, confident grip while he struggles to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head. It’s too much, it’s way too much, and before he can give Dean a warning, he’s spilling right into his hand. Dean doesn’t pull back, though, strokes him through every shudder and every twitch. His head’s spinning, and he has to fight the instinct to fall back against the bed and never, never wake up again.

Dean remains quiet, pulling his hand out of Roman’s  briefs and wiping it on his own jeans. He’s panting, eyes wide and wild, but he doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t demand for Roman to return the favor, even though it’s very, very obvious that he wishes Roman would. Roman’s not selfish, though; in fact, he’s too selfless, too happy to put himself on the back burner for the people he loves (and there’s only two, damn his traitorous heart, there’s still only two). He’s not going to just roll over and go to sleep when Dean is so obviously, obviously wanting and won’t take it, and isn’t that something? Dean Ambrose not taking something he wants?

What have you done, Seth? he asks the silent, gaping hole that Seth once filled. What have you done to us?

Silence beats within his chest. He’s terrified there will never be an answer.

Once he catches his breath, he leans forward and kisses Dean’s jaw, hand shaking as he slides it down Dean’s chest to the front of his jeans. Roman’s never done this before, touched another man like this, but he figures it can’t be too complicated. Just do for him what feels good for you, he tells himself. Easier said than done, and he’s nervous, so fucking nervous that he’s not going to do it right, he’s going to leave Dean frustrated. It’s bad enough that he’s not the one Dean wants, but not being able to get him off, either? But Dean is surprisingly, even deceptively perceptive (except when it counts), reaching up and cupping Roman’s face with one hand and using his other hand to slide Roman’s into his jeans. “’S okay,” he murmurs. “’S okay, don’t freak out, I’ll help, I’ll help…”

He uses Roman’s hand to slide his boxers down, and it’s almost reassuring when he wraps Roman’s hand around his cock. “’S okay,” he murmurs again when Roman gives an experimental tug, gritting his teeth as Roman tries to find his bearings. It feels weird doing this, and not because he’s used to soft curves. There’s nothing soft about Dean, except the look in his eyes right now. They’re close enough that they could kiss, and Dean parts his lips, but he doesn’t close the distance, instead panting against Roman’s mouth. “That’s it,” he whispers when Roman pulls his hand upward, tightening his grip. “That’s it.”

Roman doubts that Dean’s going to last long; he’s so hard, and with every twist and stroke of Roman’s hand, his breath comes faster. “You’re doing good,” he tells Roman, sliding the hand on Roman’s face up into his hair. “Real good.”

His voice is even raspier than usual. It should make Roman feel good. It should make him feel good that he’s making Dean feel this way. It just feels wrong. The voice isn’t right. He swears that somewhere, Seth is laughing at him. At both of them. He can almost hear it.

That voice in his head, the noises Dean’s making…it’s making Roman’s ears ring. He soldiers on (that’s what he always does, soldiers on, powers through, because he’s never had the option not to) and refocuses his efforts on Dean. He tightens his grip, drags his thumb along the head of Dean’s cock, and that’s the spot. Dean keens, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a whine. Dean doesn’t give him a warning, either, and he seems surprised, almost shocked as he comes.

Roman and Seth, during one of their late night 4 am sleep-deprivation-turned-delirium talks, had agreed that Dean was probably a noisy comer, but he’s actually not. He comes with a whimper on his lips, and the only indication that he’s come undone is the jerky twitch of his hips.

Dean lets out another whimper as he goes still, a soft one that fades into silence. They lay there for a moment, both panting to catch their breath, arms tangled around each other. Dean pets Roman’s hair for a moment, his eyes a little lighter. “That was good,” he says. He turns at that, turning a bit, reaching over his shoulder for one of the towels he brought in for Roman’s back. He hands it to Roman, and for the first time since that fateful chair shot, he smiles. “That was really good,” he says again, like he’s trying to convince Roman, or even himself.

Roman smiles back. He tells himself it’s not forced. He wipes his hand on the towel and tucks himself back into his underwear, zipping up his jeans. “Yeah,” he murmurs, watching as Dean pulls his belt from his belt loops, letting it fall to the floor. “That was good.”

You’re both fools, Seth had told him more than once, whenever he and Dean got into another senseless, stupid argument. You’re both fools.