Fear is Real {WWE FanFiction}

Chapter 8

Stomach full of lead, entire body shaking, Roman wiped his bloody hands on his pants. The world gradually came back into focus. It had stopped spinning, at least. He turned around, slowly, afraid of what he might find.

A scream tore itself from his throat.

The person's face was beaten beyond recognition, puffy and black and blue and glistening with half-dried blood. Multiple lacerations crisscrossed the scalp and upper body. The right leg jutted out at an odd angle.

Roman stumbled back, eyes wide. His lungs weren't working right. He knew that person. He'd know that form anywhere, regardless of what had been done to it. He'd spent too many days driving around with him, too many hours training with him, to not know.

Dean.

A broken sob escaped him.

Did I do this?

Tears cascaded down his cheeks in an unending stream.

Did I kill him?

Sirens sounded in the distance, coming closer.

It's my fault.

The pain in his knees as he collapsed was nothing compared to the agony in his chest.

It's all my fault.

Red and blue lights flashed behind him.

Dean...

"Sir, what happened? Are you okay? We need a medic over here!"

He shut down after that.

-*-*-*-

Time didn't seem to exist anymore. A millennium could have passed, and Roman wouldn't have noticed, holed up in his blacked out hotel room, Jack Daniels in one hand and a fifth of vodka in the other. Anything to drown out the pain.

He didn't move when a light knock came at the door. They'd go away. All of them had. He didn't want their pity, or their condolences, or their forced cheerfulness.

The knocking persisted. Irritation pushed back the alcohol-induced haze.

"Roman, I know you can hear me," a muffled voice called. "Come open the door."

"Fuck off," Roman mumbled.

The door swung open. Roman flinched at the brightness and shielded his eyes against it. He couldn't see who it was.

"Go away," Roman said.

"Roman..." the person said. The lamp flickered to life. It's artificial yellow light illuminated a certain two-toned man.

"You gotta come outta here, man," Seth said. "It's been four days."

Roman pressed the Jack Daniels bottle to his mouth and upended it. "I don't have to do anything. I'm fine."

"You missed the funeral, by the way," Seth went on.

"Why didn't anyone come get me?" The irritation swelled into annoyance bordering on anger.

"I tried." Seth gave him a look that was part pity, part sadness. "You weren't the only one to lose him."

"Yeah, well, I-" Roman shook his head. His knuckles were still bruised.

Roman tried again. "You have no idea what I've been through. The cops don't believe that I don't remember anything. They think I'm the one who- who-who did it, and-"

"Are you?" Seth interrupted.

"No!" Roman answered defensively.

It was quiet for a moment. Then Seth took the two bottles from Roman, set them to the side, and pulled the bigger man to his feet. The Samoan swayed dangerously. Seth slung Roman's arm over his shoulder and half carried him to the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Roman asked.

Seth flipped the lights on. He made Roman sit on the closed toilet, then turned the shower on.

"You need to get out of this room," Seth said over the noise of the water. "It's not doing you any good, and Dean wouldn't want it."

"How would you know what Dean would and would not want? You left us, remember? You left us, and this is what happened." Roman glared at the back of Seth's head. He saw the two-toned man's shoulders tense up.

"I'm not proud of what I did, Roman," Seth said. "It haunts me every day. I did what I thought was best. And if this is what I get for it..." He sighed and squared his shoulders. "Let's get you cleaned up."