Chapter Text
After the little tête-à-tête with Krushnic at the bar in Toledo, things get worse for Dean in the locker room.
He’s barely tolerated by some, and actively shunned by others. Krushnic falls into the latter camp for the most part, back to pretending like Dean doesn’t exist. Which, as far as Dean is concerned is closing the stable door after the horse has bolted, run rampant around the city high on sugar cubes, and fucked every mare within a ten-mile radius. Dean knows what’s possible now, knows what it is to capture Krushnic’s attention, and it’s just about the most dangerous high he’s ever known. He won’t stop chasing it just ‘cause the fucker has thrown a bitch fit and doesn’t want to play anymore.
Still, it all kind of sucks. In the ring, the others work with him because they have to, but it's cold, hard professionalism on both sides. They tell the story, they do the work, and they keep each other safe.
Outside the ring, nobody wants to know him.
HBK doesn’t care, but Dean Winchester does. Dean Winchester cares a whole lot and it sends him tailspinning into his alter-ego. It’s easy to fake it ‘til you make it when you’re an egotistical asshole who is every girl’s dream and every man’s nightmare.
(Well, theoretically for the latter, ‘cause he's more than happy to be in boys’ dreams too — hopes for it, even, like a sexy Freddy Krueger.)
He’s still a top-tier athlete, but now fueled by spite and narcotics, his matches get wilder and more outlandish. It solidifies him as an electrifying performer — his fights are exciting from beginning to end and he never gives less than 100% — but it also profiles him as someone who is difficult to work with.
Aside from Davey, Jackson, and Benny — who along with Dean have started getting referred to as ‘The Kliq’ by the rest of the roster — Dean has very few positive interactions. He insulates himself in his group of friends, and the Kliq cinches in tight around him to protect him from rumors and repercussions.
It only serves to drive a bigger wedge between the Kilq and the others. Like a snake eating itself, the cycle continues and things begin to spiral out of control.
***
Dean wins the Intercontinental Championship from Zack Steel. To celebrate, Benny breaks out his finest Colombian marching powder, The Kliq all slam back shot after shot of whiskey laced with vodka, and Dean discreetly pops a couple pills he poaches from a fan whose program he signs. It’s only to take the edge off the red-hot poker pain that manifested in his knee during the match, and holy fuck, it works — Dean can’t feel anything but fucking amazing when he fucks two of the ring girls until the three of them pass out in a pile of sweat-soaked limbs.
All in all, it’s a pretty solid night. And while the Oxy is eating away at his stomach lining, Dean’s flying high on the slushy headrush of knowing that those assholes in the locker room are just fucking jealous of him.
***
In prime decision-making mode, Dean gets two tattoos within the space of a couple months. One around his left bicep, one on his right butt cheek. He tells a magazine interviewer that the former — a snake tangled with barbed wire — is an allegory for his personality (it isn’t, he just thought it was cool) while the latter — a broken heart with the letters HBK above it — is pretty self-explanatory.
The next time Krushnic catches him in the showers, at least he’ll have a proper excuse for staring.
***
Dean has his first match at a pay-per-view event. It should be notable and important in his career, but he’s paired with one of the bigger guys who simply cannot keep up with him. A few minutes in, Dean’s bored and the fans are too. So, Dean decides to make the kind of protest that Vince can’t ignore. Right as his opponent — Mr. Indestructible — is about to get him in a headlock, Dean slips the hold.
He drops and rolls out of the ring, giving Indestructible a wiggle-fingered wave, and once the guy is engaged and coming after him, Dean begins skipping around ringside at an almost-running pace. The crowd laughs and jeers, watching on delighted as Dean makes his second lap and Indestructible lumbers after him like Frankenstein’s monster.
Dean slides back in the ring, bouncing back and forth off the ropes a couple of times, building up momentum as Indestructible trudges up the steel ring steps glaring daggers at Dean. The second Indestructible is in a workable position, Dean uses his momentum and actual athleticism to leapfrog over Indestructible’s head. He leaves the ring again, vaulting the crowd barrier, and planting himself in the front row. He sits there with a cocky grin on his face as Indestructible yells at him from the ring, and the crowd takes the opportunity to grab at Dean’s body.
He’s literally running rings around his opponents at this point. It’s hard not to be smug about that.
***
The anniversary of Dean joining the company comes and goes. To mark it, he snorts enough powder to energize a sloth into a marathon, wins his match, and then performs a strip tease on the announcer’s table that ends with him — encouraged by the women in the crowd going wild and the thought of Krushnic watching backstage — baring his naked ass. The segment airs on WWF’s primetime TV show, Monday Night Raw, and receives an ego-boosting amount of complaints.
***
“Cher,” Benny says with fond patience. “C’mon, you’re gettin’ distracted.”
Dean — trapped in Benny’s new finishing move — a submission hold that’s a variance on the triangle — has his face pressed into Benny’s inner thigh. Benny’s tree trunk legs are around Dean’s neck, the heel of his boots resting just above Dean’s ass.
Benny had asked for help with practicing something he’d been working on, and Dean — having the free time — was happy to help.
After all, that’s what friends are for, ain’t it?
“Am I?” He says, ‘accidentally’ letting his mouth ghost over his friend’s soft skin. It’s Benny’s fault really; he’s wearing slutty little trunks and nothing else.
“Dean,” Benny tries again but his voice is strained. It’s no secret that Benny is enamored with Dean — he’s his biggest and most vocal supporter both inside the ring and out, but Dean never considered it was anything other than lazy appreciation and the occasional flirt.
Huh.
“Mm,” Dean replies. He makes a token effort to get free, feigning a struggle, all so that he has a legitimate excuse to breathe hot and heavy close to Benny’s crotch.
Benny’s thighs twitch. There’s no way he can’t feel the wetness of Dean’s labored breathing, even through his trunks and jock strap.
Not even a millisecond later, Benny breaks the hold with a soft, “Fuck,” and just like that, Dean is free to sprawl across the mat, triumphant.
They’re both panting with exertion. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Benny says, not sounding all that mad about it.
Dean’s about to respond with a deadpan, ‘nope, brand new information,’ when the door to the gymnasium opens, the sound echoing in the large high-ceiling room.
He sits up, identifies who it is, and promptly flops back down dramatically. Draping his forearm over his eyes, he calls out to the interloper. “We still have the ring for another ten minutes, Krushnic.”
“I’m aware,” Krushnic replies evenly in a ‘trust me I want to be here about as much as you want me to be here’ tone. His deep voice gets closer. “But Vince has called a meeting.”
Dean screws his eyes shut. Ah, shit. He tries to think through his near-constant brain fog about what he’s done lately to earn Vince’s ire. It was his birthday last week and one of the ring girls brought a cake out after Dean’s match, which ended with them both — and some of the expensive seats — wearing the frosting. That was fun but pretty tame. Oh, and the night before last, he and the rest of the Kliq got into a bar fight with some marines over a girl who Dean had been hitting on — turned out she was one of the jarhead’s ex-girlfriends. But the boss only gives a shit about brawls when they lose or get too banged up, so it probably isn’t that either.
Still, Vince doesn’t call meetings for no reason, so with an anxious twist in his gut, Dean asks Krushnic, “Who’s gonna be there?”
“You, me, him, and Creative.”
Oh. Oh.
The sense of impending doom is instantly eclipsed by bright-lightning excitement. It zings through him, bouncing around his body like a pinball. Holy shit. Holy fuck. He kips up to his feet in one smooth move — for once not showing off, simply utilizing the quickest method for being upright.
If Creative is there, it can only mean one thing — they’re planning on a storyline where Dean takes the title from Krushnic, where he becomes the WWF Champion.
Goddamn, it’s happening.
“Cher,” Benny says, his Cajun accent dragging out the pride in the single syllable. He’s on his feet to Dean’s left just in time for Dean to launch himself at his friend. Benny catches him — he always does — and they hug tightly. Dean tucks his chin into the crook of Benny’s thick neck. “You deserve this, Dean.”
“Thanks, Benny,” Dean mumbles, his eyes hot. He swallows thickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you and the guys come up behind me.” Because despite prevailing opinions about Dean, he always makes sure his friends are taken care of.
A pointed cough comes from beyond the ring. “As touching as all this is,” Krushnic says, haughty and bored, “I do have better things to do than watch you two fondle each other.”
Dean releases Benny. “You rather be the one fondling me, Hitman?”
Benny huffs a small laugh. Dean sticks his ass out and Benny swats at it.
“I’d have to get my shots first,” Krushnic mutters.
Too excited to be irked by Krushnic’s dick behavior, Dean drops and rolls out of the ring on nothing but muscle memory and easy athleticism. He walks backward, keeping his eyes on Benny. “Back soon, babe.” Entirely for Krushnic’s benefit, Dean blows his friend a kiss, which Benny gamely catches.
Out the corner of his eye, he sees Krushnic’s jaw clench.
This shit is way too easy.
*
For such a fast-paced industry, hashing out the details of a two-minute promo certainly takes a long fucking time. They’ve spent a good ten minutes discussing which outfit Dean is going to wear for his promo against Savage for Summer Slam and Dean is about ready to suggest that he does the damn thing naked, just to end the discourse.
Another five minutes ticks by where Vince and Creative go back and forth over the skimpy chain mail with the leather beret (yes, really) or the red sparkly waistcoat and chaps combo.
Dean side-eyes Krushnic who is sitting ramrod straight in his chair across the boardroom table from him. He’s studiously listening to the conversation like it’s the most riveting thing he’s ever heard. Maybe it is; after all, he is a Pearl Jam fan.
Or maybe he’s just a fucking ass-kissing suck-up.
“What about the zebra outfit?” Dean chimes in, ‘cause he suddenly has a vested interest in making this conversation last even longer, just for the pleasure of watching Krushnic’s eyes glaze over.
“Ooh, yes,” Creative agrees eagerly. “The girls go crazy for that one.”
“Probably just the rabies,” Krushnic mutters under his breath, loud enough for only Dean to hear.
Dean snorts.
Vince looks sharply up at Dean, then switches his attention to Krushnic. “Got something to say, gentlemen?”
“No,” Krushnic answers instantly.
“Nothing of substance, anyway,” Dean tacks on, sugar-sweet.
The boss looks unconvinced as he shares a stare with Krushnic and then Dean. His focus lingers on Dean for an extra couple of beats before he says, “I want the two of you to harness whatever the hell this is.” With a meaty finger, he gestures between them. “And turn it into an epic rivalry.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Krushnic lies smoothly, so smoothly that Dean might’ve believed it himself.
Unfortunately for the both of them, Vince McMahon may be a lot of things, but a fool isn’t one of them. “Don’t bullshit me. You think that I don’t hear things? I know all about your locker room cliques and affairs with groupies and bar brawls. Everything you’ve ever done or think about doing, just assume I know.”
Dean’s tempted to test that theory, but he’s a little scared that Vince is right.
“So, a rivalry?” Dean shifts in his seat, bracing his weight on the arm before settling again. He’s in his workout gear — loose sweatpants and a ratty tank — rather than being suited like Vince and Creative or in douchebag casual like Krushnic. He feels a little underdressed for this conversation.
“Yes,” Vince confirms. “We want to get some heat going between the two of you ahead of Survivor Series. You’re going to have a match for the WWF championship. Krushnic, you’re going to drop the belt to Winchester.”
He says it so matter-of-fact, like this isn’t the biggest moment of Dean’s life — and possibly the worst of Krushnic’s.
“He’s making a mockery of the industry,” Krushnic responds tightly, valiantly trying to be polite in front of the boss, but Dean can tell that it’s taking a lot out of him. Resisting the temptation to swivel his seat so he can watch this meltdown full-on and with popcorn, Dean instead focuses on picking at his chewed-down nails. “He’s disrespectful and he doesn’t take any of this seriously. You can’t reward him for that.”
“You’re the one who wanted me to hire him — who persuaded me to keep him on in those early days!” Vince says. Dean’s head jerks up — woah, woah what?? “And now you don’t want him to reap the rewards of his hard work?”
“Hard work?” Krushnic repeats, so so close to the tipping point of losing it. “What’s hard work about strutting around flaunting himself and— and—” he struggles for a foothold on a thought that likely doesn’t involve launching himself across the table and throttling Dean. “His ass has seen more sunlight than a fucking cactus!”
Dean blurts out a laugh. He can’t help it. That’s a good one.
Vince also — and thankfully — seems amused. “With all due respect —”
“ —Which is none, apparently—”
“—This isn’t your call to make, Castiel.”
Castiel?
Dean’s been calling him Krushnic and Hitman for so long that he pretty much forgot the guy had a first name. An interesting one at that.
Krushnic deflates. “I’ve never created a fuss about a storyline before. I have done everything you’ve ever asked of me.”
For a split second, Vince looks sympathetic. Like he's considering it. Then he raps his knuckles on the table and stands up. “Then one more thing won’t hurt will it?” He gestures for Creative to come with him. “We’ll go with the zebra outfit for the Summer Slam promo.”
And with that, he’s sweeping out of the boardroom with Creative hot on his heels.
Dean and Krushnic sit in stunned silence.
Dean opens his mouth, wanting to say something — anything, but Krushnic cuts him off with a growled, “Don’t.”
But Dean’s always been one for tonguing at loose teeth and he’s not about to leave well alone now. “You’re the one who told him to hire me, huh? On a scale of one to a thousand, how bad are you regretting that right now?”
“The number doesn’t exist.”
“Why? I mean, why did you get him to hire me? How?”
Krushnic sighs. “I went to some of your amateur shows. I thought you had potential, so I asked Vince to consider making you an offer for singles.” He looks ruefully at Dean through inky black lashes. “That’s before I knew what kind of asshole you were.”
“Obviously,” Dean jokes, throat dry. “And then you persuaded him to keep me on?”
“You’re a talented asshole. As well as the garden variety.”
So, he owes everything to Krushnic. What a fucking turn-up.
Dean doesn’t know what to say. Sorry, maybe? But for what? Realistically, aside from snide comments — and Krushnic gives as good as he gets — he hasn’t done anything except his job. Even if they’d been besties, it’s entirely possible that they would’ve ended up in the exact same meeting.
It probably wouldn’t have sucked as much for Krushnic to be laying down the title to someone he respects though, so for that Dean is sorry.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t turn out to be what you thought,” Dean says, feeling young and small and stupid. It hurts in a weirdly acute way, like when parents say that they’re not angry, they’re just disappointed.
He leaves before he has to hear Krushnic replying, “Me too.”
***
It’s kind of ironic really — the moment Dean begins to consider potentially being less of an asshole to Krushnic is the moment they need to kickstart a kayfabe feud. It’s got to be huge and dramatic, so Dean cuts promos that are HBK prime material, but Dean Winchester’s heart isn’t fully behind the shit he’s saying — maybe 95%.
That doesn’t stop him and Krushnic from really going for it though — especially ‘cause for Krushnic the hatred is still 100% real. More so, now.
Dean not-so-secretly enjoys it. Krunshnic is such a perfect little conformist — a good boy traditionalist with a solid moral code — that seeing him slowly lose his iron grip on sanity and control is almost more rewarding than the promise of Dean’s forthcoming championship run.
Almost.
A key promo in the storyline is the one where the fans find out about the title match. There have been rumblings in the dirt sheets — wrestling newsletters that report spoilers, plans, and backstage gossip — for a couple of weeks, since Hitman and HBK started beefing publicly, but nothing official so far. So the night they confirm the rumors is going to be a big one.
Dean’s in the ring talking shit about a babyface opponent he’d beaten the night before, whipping the crowd up into a frenzy of dislike and contempt. By the time he’s been yapping for a few minutes — questioning everything from the dude’s in-ring ability to his prowess with women — the fans are holding out for a hero; a streetwise Hercules like Bonnie Tyler was searching for.
And here he comes.
Krushnic strides out from backstage to rescue everyone. He’s so self-assured and so well put-together that it makes Dean want to claw and tear at him to see what he’s made of underneath the cool composure. He saw the teaser trailer for that Dean-induced lunacy in Vince’s office, and Dean would love nothing more than to catch the whole movie sometime. (As long as the rating is strictly NC-17.)
With the full force of his entrance music behind him, Krushnic receives the kind of crowd pop that’s envied by everyone else on the roster and it would be humbling if Dean had it in him to be humbled by anyone anymore.
Mic in hand, Krushnic stops at the top of the ramp, a few feet in front of the backstage curtain, waiting out the cheers and his music.
He looks good — too good, annoyingly fucking good — in blue jeans tucked into heavy boots and no shirt under his leather jacket. He's got the championship belt slung over his shoulder, but his sunglasses are down — rather than pushed up into his hair — covering his eyes.
Something about it unnerves Dean. He’s never not been able to see Krushnic’s eyes before when they were catfighting. He doesn’t like that Krushnic is hiding from him.
Right as Krushnic is about to launch into his character’s tirade, Dean cuts in, “You know who wears sunglasses inside? Blind people and douchebags.”
Even from this distance, Dean can see Krushnic’s ample chest expand with a world-weary sigh. Slowly, he reaches up and removes them, folding them into his large hand. “And apparently reprobates wear very little.”
The crowd ‘oooohs’; Hitman’s promos are usually fun, but not particularly cutting — this is certainly a different flavor for them.
Dean makes a show of looking down at himself. He’s kept it modest tonight with a black mesh muscle-fit shirt and black jeans. It’s more clothes than he usually wears, but on any other night, Krushnic would’ve had a valid point, so Dean cuts him some slack.
“If you think what I’m wearing is hot, just come right out and say it, big guy.”
Krushnic’s sneer isn’t entirely for show. “I think you’re a menace.” He begins to pace at the top of the ramp. “I think that the fans of the World Wrestling Federation come to shows to see matches, not some male stripper —” There are plenty of catcalls and hoots from the audience that suggest otherwise, and Dean acknowledges them with a lopsided smirk, a quick flex of muscle, and a wink in Krushnic’s direction.
There’s a strange, hot moment when Krushnic fumbles — a tiny blip in his stride that nobody but Dean will have noticed. It’s over between one heartbeat and the next — just like the dirty jolt to Dean’s gut — and ever the true professional, Krushnic seamlessly continues his blahblahblah, “— I think you’re not fit to be the Intercontinental champion and I think you’ll never be the WWF champion.” He halts, staring Dean down with fathomless eyes. “No, I know you’ll never be the WWF champion.” To punctuate his point, he hoists the championship belt higher up on his shoulder.
The crowd cheers.
Dean sticks his tongue between his teeth, all HBK sass. Oh, how will he come back from such a burn? “Oh yeah? Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is? Put your title on the line; fight me at Survivor Series.”
That receives an encouraging crescendo of noise from the fans.
As Krushnic pretends to consider his response, Dean decides to shunt them both toward the cliff-edge of insanity. Remembering (actually never forgetting) Krushnic’s words in Toledo, HBK teases, “I mean, if you’re so sure, then you’ve got nothing to fear from me, right? Nothing to worry about from a reprobate, a menace, a degenerate.”
Again, their eyes catch. Krushnic’s aren’t impassive anymore, they’re blazing.
The crackle of filthy-hot want zips through Dean like a lightning strike.
Fuck.
“Alright,” Krushnic agrees. His next words almost get lost in the crowd’s screams, but Dean doesn’t miss them. “I’m looking forward to being the reason you strike out. Again .”
And then he’s tossing his mic to the side and leaving Dean standing there in the middle of the ring (metaphorically) holding his dick.
Motherfucker.