Fear is Real {WWE FanFiction}

Chapter 13

Voices floated around Roman. He knew that they belonged to bodies, but he was half convinced that they were simply part of the air, tormenting him with questions and whispers of accusations. Roman knew they were right. The blood on his hands confirmed their suspicions. No one would believe them if he told them the truth.

The truth. The thought almost made him laugh out loud. Seth had been so close to discovering it. He had suspected that Dean had done something to protect Roman, and what had that prediction gotten Seth? A knife to the heart and an agonizing death.

No. The police wouldn't take him seriously; there was already too much evidence against Roman. He would be thrown in jail, most likely on death row. His daughter would grow up without him, would ask daily where her daddy was, and her mother wouldn't be able to explain. Tears pooled in Roman's eyes at that thought. Anger surged within him, but this time the emotion was his own. Dean didn't know what he was doing when he summoned that demon. Instead of protecting Roman, Dean basically signed off on his death warrant.

"Sir, please, can you tell me what happened?" asked one of the voices, this one a woman. Her tone was soft, but Roman shook his head. He refused to answer. Guilt burned in his chest.

I did this.

No, Roman, a new voice whispered. It reverberated in his skull, as if it came straight from the ground that Roman knelt on. Neither Dean's nor Seth's death is on your hands - not spiritually, at least. I will explain what you do not already know. I will save you.

Roman tensed, but the voice faded. He stared with unfocused eyes as the coroner zipped up the body bag that held Seth's lifeless form, then sank into the flames in his chest.

~ * ~ * ~

The walls of the day room were an unnatural white, like they had once held color but had been drained by a giant vacuum. Roman sat staring at one of the walls, hands folded in his lap, his skin a stark contrast to the same bleached white of his outfit. He didn't enjoy the starched patients' clothes, but he supposed it beat the hell out of a prison jumpsuit.

It had been months since he - no, the demon - had killed Seth. Roman had been put on trial, and somehow had been sentenced to a mental institution on the claim of insanity. During his time in the institution, he'd managed to piece together what had transpired all those months he'd been possessed.

Dean had always been a little overprotective of Roman and Seth. That was understandable, considering his background; Roman felt the same brotherly affection and camaraderie towards both men. But Dean took it too far. He summoned the demon, bent it to his will, forced it to do anything to keep Roman safe. The demon didn't understand the difference between the human morals of right or wrong. It simply obeyed.

At first, the demon did its job, but it started taking over Roman at more and more frequent intervals. That was why Roman had all those memory gaps, or so he guessed. It seemed to be the only logical solution to that puzzle piece.

By possessing Roman, the demon began to crave control. Dean had been trying to get a handle on the demon that night that Roman woke up to Dean talking to seemingly nothing. The demon couldn't risk Roman knowing what was going on - that was Roman's explanation for why it had strangled him. That was also why his memory gaps grew progressively worse. When he died and came back, his spirit was...changed, somehow. Less substantial, and easier to take over.

But still Dean persisted in trying to control the demon. Which got him killed, bludgeoned to death by Roman's unwilling fists.

The demon hadn't been protecting Roman; it had been protecting itself. Which was why Seth had been killed, as well. He was too close to the truth.

The only thing Roman couldn't figure out was why the demon had let him go after Seth was killed. The rage and guilt within Roman at the time had nearly incapacitated him; it would have been all too easy for the demon to take control for good. But it had simply...vanished. Drained away like the color from the walls.

Roman glanced around the room, more out of boredom than curiosity. A handful of other patients were scattered around the day room for their hour of free time. Dale sat by the barred windows, murmuring to himself about ravens and mountains. John One was hunched over one of the two tables, scribbling furiously in a tattered notebook, while John Two sketched the rough outline of a man at the other table. Roman sighed. He didn't belong here any more than Michael Cole belonged in the Royal Rumble.

The door buzzed open. Roman sat up, turning to see who was joining them this time. Last week, they'd gotten a new arrival from the Midwest, a big redheaded man who was promptly moved up to solitary because he was so disruptive. Roman had been sad to see him go. The redhead had seemed like the only other remotely sane person in the institution.

A man with shaggy brown hair the color of wet sand and a gloating voice stepped through the doorway, flanked by two red-faced nurses. The newcomer's blue eyes locked onto Roman's, and a jolt of electricity ran through Roman. He stifled a scream.

Impossible, Roman thought.

Dean.