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I Love You (But You Might Be The Death Of Me)

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Everything felt off. Seth couldn't get comfortable in the bed, it feeling Too Big, Too Cold, like his limbs couldn't spread out the right way. The pillow felt too stiff, but if he switched it, it felt too soft. The sheets were itchy, then too silky; the light in the room gleamed off of his battered briefcase just the right way to catch his peripheral vision at just the right angle to aggravate the living fuck out of him.

This also was the first night in a long time that his bed was not occupied by Dean.

But that had nothing to do with why he was wide awake at 2 AM, uncomfortable and irritable.

Definitely not the reason why every time he closed his eyes, tried to get himself in the right state of mind to just jerk off and get the tension in his system out, that he froze before his hand even wrapped all the way around his dick. That all he could see was that smirk and those dimples and those pale blue eyes and hear that low raspy voice. Nope, not at all.

Seth Rollins may be great at many a thing, but lying was not one of them.

He thought he could handle Dean being cold to him, he honestly did. They'd still been seeing each other, even after Seth betrayed him and Roman, and it always ended the same way. Fingers in hair, tugging, gasped out moans, and falling asleep in the same bed, under the same covers, definitely not cuddling.

Because why would they cuddle? Why would Seth cuddle with someone he hated, someone he never gave a damn about in the first place?

Weren't those his words?

So, clearly, he shouldn't have been upset when Dean did nothing but pass him by, bumping his shoulder slightly as he walked past him in the hallway, barely acknowledging his presence. Since their feud had been paused, it was as if Dean had shut down completely, numb to anything except the end goal of bashing Bray Wyatt's face into the canvas.

Maybe he was just distracted. Yeah. That would be it.

Maybe that's why Dean had read the text Seth had sent asking if he needed to swing by the hotel room, and just didn't reply. Maybe he had meant to…

Dean wouldn't completely disregard him like that, right?

And, fuck, why did he care if he did? So what, he didn't give a damn about him.


Seth grabbed one of the pillows on the bed and shoved it over his face, groaning into it. This was stupid. This was so overwhelmingly dumb, why was he awake at two thirty in the fucking morning contemplating Dean fucking Ambrose. He should be sleeping, he had interviews later, and definitely needed the rest before he went to the gym, and just…

He kept the pillow over his face, sighing in defeat. If Dean was going to plague his thoughts to the point of insomnia, he better make the best out of it.

He didn't even bother uncovering his face, because the fact that he was contemplating jerking off to thoughts of Dean was embarrassing enough that he felt it was warranted.

Yet again, though, whenever he tried to get himself going, tried to get himself hard in his hand, all he could see were his obnoxious grin, the one that left wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or his eyes all bright and wonderful staring at him.

He tried to focus on something else, like the feel of his lips around his cock, the feel of his fingers inside him, but it shifted; instead he heard his laughter in his ears, the way he'd sing off-key very loudly when they would drive down the highway.

Seth pressed the pillow roughly against his face, smothering himself. Maybe he could just suffocate himself to sleep, that would be easier than trying to get off at this point. He tried, one more time, to try and get himself closer to that edge, to bring it to a place where there was no going back.

And then all he saw in his head was when Dean held his face in the ring at SummerSlam. He said "I love you." Kissed his head. And then curbstomped him.

Seth yelped in pain, biting at the pillow, curling in on himself.

He desperately held the pillow against his face, not wanting to remove it from his face for fear of what he could see there.

It wouldn't be tear marks. No, why would there be tears there?

He swallowed hard at a lump in his throat that he did not give permission to show up.

It's not like Seth had realized at now almost 2:45 in the morning, blinking back tears that he most certainly did not allow to be there, that he was madly in love with a man that he hadn't so much pushed away as much as tore the fuck off of him.

A man who used to kiss every kanji character down his spine, mumbling between kisses that tattoos are stupid, rubbing his thumb over the one on his wrist.

It's not like he was in love with a man who practically had a blood feud against him.

A man who used to hold him tight after breaking him apart bit by bit, nuzzling his face into his hair, tracing patterns on his arms.

No, he was in love with a man who ignored his very existence.

A man who looked at him with dead, empty eyes.

Perhaps suffocation was the better option.

Because why would he ever admit that he loved Dean?

He'd rather be dead.

It'd hurt less.