a/n: anyone who knows me or follows me on tumblr and/or twitter probably can't believe this is my first time writing ambreigns. truth is, i've always been super intimidated about attempting them because there are so many amazing fics about them, and tbh, i'm not completely comfortable writing slash. credit goes to redsandman99 for allowing me to use a headcannon of hers where roman uses a dog as a test baby for himself and dean. also, if you haven't read her stuff, read her stuff. SHE'S AMAZING!

~*~i'm going home and i'm coming to you~*~

pairing: roman reigns/dean ambrose

summary: dean's never had a home, not a real one, at least not until roman. /or the one where it's dean and roman's first night home with their newborn son and dean reflects on how he - of all people - ended up living the cliche` of the American dream, you know, the whole husband, kid, dog and white picket fence thing

rating: t

your little hand's wrapped around my finger/and it's so quiet in the world tonight

"never grow up" - taylor swift

Overwhelmed. Completely and totally overwhelmed. Like, so much so Dean thinks it's a fucking miracle, he's even breathing. There's this blue bundle in his arms, barely weighing, 9 ½ pounds, his whole tiny hand wrapped around one of his own fingers and big brown eyes are blinking up at him, before they just stare.

He swallows thickly, feeling sweat start to break across his brow while his heart rate speeds up inside his chest. He can feel his pulse starting to race, like, a train picking up steam down a track. He adjusts the bundle in his arms and hears Roman's familiar baritone in the recesses of his mind breathe.

It's only been three hours and already he's going to have a full blown panic attack because Roman left him alone with their son so he could call his parents and tell them their sixth grandchild is here. And, seriously, why couldn't that giant lug stand up to his own mother?! His mother who barely reached his shoulders? That fucking Mama's Boy, if something happened with their kid while he was gone, he was gonna strangle him.

He should've known better than to leave him alone with the kid so soon.

"Fucking Roman..." He grumbled under his breath and suddenly the quiet was broken with a plaintive cry from the bundle in his arms. "Fuck!" He shouted, the panic rising and the cry grew louder.

"Hey, hey..." Shifting and then bouncing the bundle as he brings his voice down to a level so gentle, he didn't think he actually possessed, "Don't do that. Your, um, whoa..." Blinking as he swallows again. "Daddy," And there's this red velvet – the only way to describe it – bursting through his veins, engulfing him as the brown eyes slowly open again, wide and innocent, peering curiously and locking onto his blue again. "Will back in a second. He's gotta tell your Nana and Grandpa you're here. Cause he's a damn Mama's Boy, but don't tell him I said that. Cause then he'll be bit..." He stops himself, mid-curse, a miracle in and of itself and regroups. "Whining about me callin' him that, even though, he is and I don't gotta put up with that sh... stuff."

Soft cooing and the sound of gums smacking against gums comes next. Then there's a little hand reaching out, grabbing at nothing and Dean reaches into the bundle. One finger traces the chubby cheek and he wonders if he's ever felt anything this smooth, touched anything this fragile and precious and... Holy fuck, this intense wave of protectiveness washes over him as the tiny little hand grips his finger, tight, again.

He thought he would only ever feel that way – the need to protect and fight with claws and teeth and anything and everything he could get his hands on – about Roman. Never did he think anyone or anything else could compare to Roman, but now – this barely 9 ½ pound bundle – owns him, completely. In less than three hours – really, it's less than the minute it took Roman to shift the baby boy from his own arms into his – he's been captured by big brown eyes and teeny tiny hands and feet and a chubby stomach and soft cheeks and downy brown hair that covers his whole head.

This – holding a baby, being in a house with a dog, the white picket fence shebang – was never supposed to be for him. He was always supposed to be on the outside looking in. Pressing his face against the glass of the bay window in the nursery. Desperately longing, begging, wishing, wanting, hoping. But never having.

Woof. Woof. Woof.

A startled cry from the bundle and Dean shakes his head, laughing as he shifts the baby in his arms, naturally – like he's done this all his life, hold babies and shit – and turns to the doorway of the nursery. Sitting on her haunches, tail wagging excitedly – thump, thump, thump – head titled curiously to the side and one ear quirked up, is their year old German Shepherd puppy, Kuma.

He tries to glare, he really does, because she is the one to blame for this – him holding a baby – but he can't. And seriously what kind of shit is this?! He's really living up to that stupid cinnamon roll meme Roman showed him the other day. The one where some tumblr fangirl made a thing of all the wrestlers and said he looked like he would kill you but was actually a cinnamon roll.

Well, fuck, he's gonna – once this paternity leave is over – start knocking heads and asking to be put in barbed wire matches and jumping off steel cages and shit. Cause this sappy shit and all this red velvet warmth curling at the base of his spine and spreading through his veins needed to fucking stop.

Like, yesterday.

Carefully the puppy steps across the threshold of the room, nose plastered to the carpet – basically – determined to investigate this new strange scent. She stops at Dean's feet and looks up, expectedly, like he's going to tell her what that smell is.

Woof. Woof. Woof.

Then Kuma is pawing at his leg and whining, demanding to know. Curious as to what this new scent is in her home and what it means. She sits back on her haunches, still whining, but no longer pawing and though he's grumbling under his breath about "freaking puppy dog eyes," Dean lowers himself to the plush tan carpet of the now jungle themed room and says – again more gently, than he ever thought he would be capable of - "Kuma, this is Max, he's gonna be living here now..."

Mentally, Dean, face palms at how ridiculous he sounds. Like, he's talking to an older kid about bringing home their little brother or sister, god-fucking-damn-it, roman where the fuck are you?! he thinks, scathingly, as he glares at the empty doorway, as if the big man will magically materialize. He's still glaring when the next thing he knows, Kuma is leaning over the bundle and looking inside. He laughs as she bends and tentatively licks at his son's chubby cheek, who squirms and rolls away.

Kuma whines plaintively, obviously, feeling as though she was shunned. Her head bows and she looks like she does when she's caught stealing food off of the kitchen table or the time she had one of Roman's prized sneakers in her mouth.

"Don't worry, girl," Dean reaches forward, balancing Max in one arm – again, like he's been doing this shit for years – and ruffles her fur. "He's too little for dogs right now. Give him a couple months. You two are gonna be inseparable."

Big brown eyes – different than Max's – are locked on his blue and after a beat, Kuma's tail starts to wag, like, she understands Dean's words. He smiles – the soft kind, he once thought were only reserved for Roman – when she trots in a circle before laying right at his feet, ever the protector her instincts make her out to be. He scratches behind her ears – her favorite – and she rumbles in contentment, her eyes closing as she begins to drift to sleep.

It's fucking insane, Dean thinks, looking down at himself.

There's a baby in his arms and a dog at his feet. While he's sitting in a room with bright green walls. A wooden crib in the middle, which sits on a rug with a zebra, a lion, a tiger and a snake, all done in bold colors of oranges, yellows, greens aside from the zebra's black and white. On the bright green walls are other animals; a toucan, a parrot, a monkey, a gorilla, elephant. The mobile above the bed – an elephant, lion, tiger and monkey – spins while playing a soft melody. A wooden dresser is in the far corner. On the opposite wall is a changing table. A colorful toy chest – ABC, 1, 2, 3 and musical notes – is tucked over by the closet where blue, red and white towels are housed along with a shitload of baby clothes Dean couldn't fathom and whole fucking bunch of stuffed animals are in there, too.

Shelves – wood, also – complete the room. There's one with a firetruck – Dean wanted to be a fireman as a kid – and underneath is one with a football – if Roman had his way, he'd still be playing. And there's one filled with a stack of books; all the classics, Curious George, Thomas the tank Engine, Goodnight Moon, Harold and the Purple Crayon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, but one book catches his eye.

It's a hand-bound book, Patti's doing, because all of her children's baby books were hand-bound and she continued the tradition with her five previous grandchildren. So their son, of course, would not be the exception to the rule. The elegant scrawl – her own – stands out across the cover, which reads, Maxwell Sika Roderick Ambrose-Reigns. Maxwell had been the only name he and Roman had been able to agree on. He wasn't budging on Sika as a middle name since the man had been more of a father to him than his own and Roman thought their son should have an homage to his Papa's hero, his inspiration, and while he teased the big man about being "a fucking mushball to end all mushballs," he, was smiling on the inside.

"You have no fucking idea," Dean could hear Roman – as if he was right there – tone down the cursing, jesus, dean! but continued, anyway, "How fucking nuts this is, little dude. Me? Being a Dad? Actually, holding a real life fucking baby? I just hope," A heavy breath through pursed lips as he traces a chubby cheek. "I don't fuck you up too bad. That Roman's sunshine and rainbows and shit, like, overpower my messed-up-ness and whatever. Hopefully you'll believe in me like he does. Whaddya say, Max?"

A spit bubble and a sleepy gurgle come from the bundle before a yawn stretches the little mouth open wide and as Dean watches in fascination, he can't help but think about when Roman would not stop bugging him about getting a dog. Or, you know, how the big man tried to cover up his baby fever by using a dog as a substitute for a baby.

Yeah, he thought he had been a smooth mother fucker, but Dean knew the truth all along. Dog was code for baby.

"A test baby?" Seth arched a thick brow at Roman, head titled curiously. "What the fuck is a test baby? Are you saying you want to give Dean an egg to carry around for six weeks, like, high school or some shit?"

Roman rolled his eyes as he slapped the younger man upside his head.

Ignoring the younger man's whine, the big man pressed on, "I'm not giving him an egg, you dumbass. I'm talking about a dog. Dean thinks any living thing in his vicinity is gonna wither and die, which is bullshit, but you know how he is. With the way he grew up, I can't really blame him. Except he's not that kid anymore. The one who used to scratch and claw, protecting whatever he had with teeth and hackles, every second of every day. He's a good man – loyal, smarter than he gives himself credit for with a heart that is strong and steady, not erratic and wild. He'd be a great Dad. Did you see him the other day with Cena's Make A Wish kid?"

Seth nodded, remembering, Dean adjusting the little boy's sweatbands and setting his hat perfectly onto his head, bending the brim for him and everything. He murmured something in his ear, crouching down to his level, all traces of the snarl he wore in the ring, gone. The two-toned Superstar then turned to the big man and suddenly burst out laughing.

The big man had this faraway look in his eyes, gazing down the hallway and he followed the other's line of sight, and a shit-eating grin stretched across his full lips. Dean was just down the way, talking with a fan and her daughter who looked to be about five. The little girl – not unlike the big man he was sitting next to – had stars in her eyes, too, as she gazed up at the Cincinnati native.

The loud smacking of lips meeting cheek reverberated down the hallway and as Dean waived goodbye to the pair, Seth started to hum to himself until the dishwater blonde approached them. Then his humming got louder as he teased in a sing-song tone, "Roman and Dean sittin' in a tree, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage..."

"Oh, fuck you, Cruella," Dean growled, eyes narrowing into slits as he glared at Seth. "You're just jealous you ain't getting any."

"Jealous of what? I may not have a girl warming my bed right now, but I don't have a big man with baby fever nipping at my heels, like you do now do I , Ambrose?" Seth shot back before sauntering off, title belt gleaming on his shoulder.

"Baby fever?" Roman could feel his cheeks heat up as he looked up at Dean, sheepishly, soft smile on his plush lips. "Oh fuck no!" Dean yelped, shaking his head adamantly. "No! No! No! Rollins is just fucking with me, right?! Roman, tell me," Through gritted teeth. "That two-toned bitch is just fucking with me and you don't got some damn baby fever?! Roman!"

"You say it like it's a bad thing," A wonderfully thick muscled arm reaching out, which Dean swats away. "Dean..." Exasperated, but not really, as always. "We've been together for awhile, thinking about kids..."

"I'd rather have tarantulas crawl all over me."

"You gonna feed me lies like that, baby boy?" Roman clicks his tongue tsk-tsk, shaking his head. "You know you'd rather be struck by lightening than ever get within two inches of a spider, any kind of spider. Why are you so freaked about having kids, anyway? It's not, like, you're Seth. Kids can't stand him. At least ones under the age of sixteen, anyway. Kids love you. Almost," This time Dean can't swat his arm away as it winds around his tight waist, pulling him against that deliciously hard frame. "As much as I do." Soft and rumbling against his shaggy curls.

"They ain't mine, though. They don't expect me to come home, to go to soccer games or hang up their spaghetti art and whatever on the walls. They just want a picture and an autograph. So I do my thing and then they go away. My kid ain't gonna want me to take a picture and sign some shit. They're gonna want me home, to go to soccer games and like their stick figure drawings and spaghetti art. How the fuck do I do that?"

"What if we got a dog first? Like, as a test baby or whatever? You like dogs. A lot." Dean can feel Roman's lips curl into a smile against his curls. "You tried to pet a million at one time when they had the shelter dogs backstage, remember?"

"Again," Dean says, trying to shove Roman away, but the big man only tightens his grip. "Those dogs were not mine. I didn't have to feed them, give them water, clean up their shit. I was just playin' with 'em while I had the chance."

"So, let's get a dog. It's not like we can't bring them on the road. Brie and Bryan bring Josie all the time."

"They also grow their own vegetables and don't eat meat. We gonna start doin' that, too?"

"Dean..."

"What are you laughin' at?" There goes that stupid red velvet thingy as Dean tears his eyes away from Max's sleeping face. He feels stupid and he hates that red velvet thingy as he stares at Roman's impressive frame filling the doorway. His heart picks up speed, in a good way, like always as his steel blue meets the big man's warm silver.

"Nothin'." The last thing he wants is Roman finding out how big of a sap he's being. He'll never hear the end of it.

"Feedin' me lies again, baby boy?" Tsk-tsk as he steps fully into the nursery and sits right next to Dean. "You know I'm gonna get it out of you eventually. You might as well tell me now."

"I don't have to tell you everything. And what I'm laugin' at, ain't any of your business."

"Everything you do is my business. Now, just tell me."

Dean sighs as he turns, eyes locking with Roman's once more, and there they are so open and honest – like always – gleaming warm silver, like, a fresh water pond in winter and his heart's doing that thing where he thinks it will burst from his chest. And one of these days Dean's sure that it will and grab for Roman's hand, begging to runaway. Till then, it'll just beat really fast and make sunny warmth blast across his vision.

He takes a brief second to look at Max's sleeping face and then down at his feet where Kuma's still laying and snoring softly, her nose twitching every few seconds, caught up in her dreams.

"I wasn't supposed to have all this y'know..." Barely above a whisper. "Just, y'know, thinkin' about how we got here and shit. How, I, um..." A rub at the back of his neck, a glance down at his black tank top and plaid pajama pants. "Got here. Cause I was never supposed to be here. The whole Leave It To Beaver family, white picket fence – dog, baby, house, car, hubby – thing, it was supposed to be everybody else but me."

"That ain't true." Strong and steady like the heart that pounds in the broad chest Dean loves so much. And there – he feels it, like a drum – against his ear as Roman pulls him against him, thickly muscled arms winding around, engulfing him, like something precious, something fragile. Something worthy of protecting. And not just because he has their son in his arms.

But because it's always been this way.

Well, okay, not always, always. There had been a time when he and Roman were ripping at each other's throats, pushing buttons, needling and snarling, two alphas fighting for the same piece of proverbial real estate. It seems like another lifetime now, like, they were two different people, almost. Except they're not. They're still the same and every once in awhile their alpha thing will rear its ugly head, resulting in knock out, drag out fights, but they don't end up with bloodied lips and cracked knuckles.

No, now, they just refuse to share a bed. One opting for either the couch in the living room or the one in the rec room.

"You were always supposed to have all this." Brings Dean back from his reverie. "If anybody deserves it, it's you. Mom wants me to take a million pictures of little man. Summer and Vanessa are sending presents from Kai, Kayley and Brandon. Matty said Malia's got Cassie and Koa making up cards and going through their old toys to see which ones Max might like. Pops said if he don't see him by Monday, he's gonna march down here and give us both a whoopin', so I guess baby's first road trip will be sooner than we thought. I'll put the car seat together since the crib gave you so much trouble."

"Fu..." Dean stops himself mid curse because of Roman's glare. "I could've put the crib together. It ain't my fault those instructions were bogus."

"Whatever you say, baby boy," A teasing ruffle of Dean's curls. "Now..." A kiss against the familiar soft fringe. "Tell me what had you laughin' earlier."

"Just thinkin' about how I got here, holdin' a baby, dog at my feet. Y'know the whole American Dream cliché and shit. If it wasn't for Kuma," A nudge of his foot against the puppy's back. "Max wouldn't be here."

"Nah," Roman insisted. "He'd still be here. Kuma just gave you the boost of confidence you needed to realize what I knew all along. You," A squeeze of Dean's frame. "Were made for this."

"Cause you're always right?" Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"You're damn right I am."

"Please."

Before this could drag out any longer, Roman bent forward, capturing Dean's lips in a warm kiss. Their tongues barely touched when Max's let out a piercing wail, jolting Kuma – who was asleep at Dean's feet – awake, her head darting back and forth, trying to find the source of the sound. Grumbling about being woken up, she cast a scathing look at he baby's direction before raising to her haunches to give Roman a lick and then leaving the room.

Max's one piercing cry lead to a series of wails and Roman laughed at the look of pure panic on Dean's face. Reaching for the wailing infant, Roman shook his head, "Already taking after your Papa, huh, little man? He yells when he's hungry, too."

Dean looked purely affronted, glaring, as he rose to his feet, following his husband down the stairs, "How freaking dare you. Like, you're a freaking, delight to be around when you haven't eaten in six hours? Just for that, you ain't getting any. Go sleep on the freaking couch, you dick."

"Papa talks big," Roman bounced Max gently as he pulled a bottle from the fridge. "But he ain't got the stomach to back it up."

"We'll see who ain't got the stomach to back it up, when you're the one with blue balls."

"Like I said, little man, Papa talks big."

The banter dies down once Max is happily sucking on his bottle. Dean feels his heart twist in his chest, tight, but also feeling light as air. He feels that damn goofy smile only Roman can inspire curling at his lips. There's something – he can't find a word for it – about seeing this; the big man holding their son in his massive arms, walking and talking, bouncing him, making faces and being Roman that has his head spinning, but at the same time he's never been more grounded.

There's a whine at his feet and he laughs at the feel of Kuma pawing at his leg. Everyone being in the kitchen to her meant it was time to eat. Scratching her behind the ears, he says, "I guess you can have a treat. Don't get used to this, Kumes, it ain't gonna happen every time Max wakes up for a 3 AM feeding."

Kuma grabs the treat from Dean's outstretched hand and in one gulp, it's gone. "Looks like Max isn't the only one who takes after you. I forgot," Roman's teasing as he places a towel over one shoulder before shifting Max and patting his back, encouraging him to burp. "Kuma don't chew her food either."

"Don't think she doesn't take after you. She's always licking at her fur, like, you brush your freaking hair. Every second of every day. What is it, Romeo? A hundred strokes before bed each night?"

"Like you don't appreciate it."

A loud burp stops Dean from retorting, which makes Roman's lips curl into a shit-eating grin. "See? Told ya little man takes after you, Papa."