Chapter Text
Nights are dark in this city, darker than most. I know what you're going to say, “But Dean, aren't all nights dark?”
My answer to that is a resounding, fuck you! Of course nights are dark, I'm not stupid! I'm trying to be deep here. Bear with me. It'll get better, I promise.
As I was saying, the difference here is that when I'm around, the darkness bites...hard. It sinks its teeth in, rips at your flesh, and shakes you around a bit just to make sure you're paying attention. You know, a typical Saturday night at the The Powerhouse Bar (it's a stupid name, I hate it). Anyway, I liked the darkness fighting back, because it meant, at least for now, I was alive.
Unlike the patrons of this hole in the wall dump Roman Reigns owned. Every time I walk in, I feel my body shiver; sometimes from the beings staring at me, sometimes from the mystery meat specials he had scrawled on the chalkboard. Who ate that shit enough for it to be a weekly thing? Scratch that, it's the group of werewolves who hustled pool for a few bucks every Saturday. They always won, or they beat the shit out of you and took your money anyway. I still don't know why Roman lets them in. He says their good tippers. I don't buy it.
Speaking of Roman, the man hasn't stopped cleaning that glass in his hand since I walked in. He didn't look happy to see me, then again he never really did. He said that I made people nervous. I'd buy that as an excuse if there were any actual people here besides us. See, Romans bar had a very specific and exclusive clientele. He catered to the creatures that went bump in the night, the monster under the bed, the demon that hides in plain sight, the boogeyman (who, incidentally, makes a mean tequila sunrise). Yes, The Powerhouse Bar - have I mentioned I hate that name? - was a supernatural home away from home and I helped them solve their problems.
Call it a gift.
Roman sure as hell didn't.
We've been friends for years and he still has the audacity to look shocked when I walk in looking for a case. He even glared at me from behind that mane of black hair he refused to cut as I slid onto a stool next to a warlock who got up quickly, taking his pina colada with him. No matter, I tended to have that effect on people who weren't really people.
He finally put the glass down and placed his large hands on the bar in front of me. He would have been intimidating if I didn't know him so well, all muscles and broodiness. Even that tattoo that ran down his right arm was enough to make most normal men back down from the large Samoan. Good thing I wasn't a normal man, I was Dean Ambrose.
“What are you doing here, Ambrose?”
“It's adorable that you always seem shocked to see me.” I liked messing with him. He tended to roll his eyes so hard he could probably see his own brain. Kind of like now. “Can't a guy get a beer in this fine, upstanding establishment without - “
“If you don't finish that sentence, it's on the house.”
“Deal.”
Though he did so begrudgingly, he got me my usual and placed it in front of me with a huff. I took a sip and savored the lukewarm hoppiness of good old fashioned, cheap American beer for a moment. “This one was almost cold, Ro. You keep this up and I'll start to think you don't like me anymore.”
Again with the eye roll. I was two for two. “Dean, I got one nerve left and you're dry humping it. What do you want?”
He wanted to cut to the chase, fine. I would have kept prodding him, but I've been punched in the face by Roman Reigns before and he looked like he was very close to doing it again. “Business is a bit slow. I need some new clients.”
Eye roll number three. One more and I beat my own record. “You have got to stop coming here for this. These people don't like you.”
“That's ridiculous! People love me!”
That was generally true. Just not these people, mainly because they weren't human...at the minimum, not anymore.
“Dean, just last week you were jumped in the parking lot because some jealous husband didn't like the looks of the pictures you took of his wife.”
“It was not my fault they were blurry, she was a poltergeist. They are very floaty.”
“Yeah, I'd accept that answer if it was the first time something like that happened.”
“C’mon Ro. Help me out.”
Eye roll number four. Score. He did breathe an annoyed sigh, but reached under the bar anyway and slapped a piece of paper down in front of me with a name and phone number. “That guy came in looking for you a few days ago.”
“Seth Rollins. You know him.”
“He's a normal. That's all I know.”
“A normal? You know I don't take human cases.”
“Hey, you asked if I had anything. There it is. Call him or don't, just finish your beer before the wolves rope you into another game of pool.”