A/N: Woo hoo! I'm back again! I can't thank everyone enough who even paid the least bit of attention to my last fic - THANK YOU! Your support and reviews mean everything. They really do brighten up my entire day.

Obligatory Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from The Shield in any way. I also have no proof that this scenario has ever happened, only a deep, yearning desire.

I hope everyone enjoys the evil plot bunny that MxJoyride and I have created late into these humid summer nights. I said to Mx: "Write me a Punkbrose fic." Mx said to me: "I'll write it if you write aftermath session with The Shield." I gladly responded: "Deal."

So here we are. This is the follow up to MxJoyride's scathingly sexy "Ice Cold." If you haven't read it, I highly suggest you do, because a) it's brilliant, and b) you'll need it to understand certain parts of this fic. She is my lovely cohort, and I can't thank her enough for her bunny, typo-finding, and feelz!inspiring!support.

Soundtrack Suggestion: I was introduced to the amazing Meat Beat Manifesto, and it fully powered this fic. Anything off the "Original Fire" album is amazing, but the songs set my feelz on fire were "Helter Skelter '97," "No Words Necessary," "Horns of Jericho," and "It's the Music."

Before I continue one with this fic, I must shout out the tremendous amount of talent in this fandom. There is, of course, the phenomenal Ambassador of Ambrollins: Mxjoyride. So many phenomenal pieces of in the Ambrollins universe: the infamous "For Real," the blistering hot "This Fire," and the softer but equally sexy "Red Velvet" and "After Dark." Glitterdune is another one who puts out amazing work. Her latest work "The Storm and The Dark," is such a hot and amazingly true character piece that it keeps me up at night. Seriously… I have problems leaving that thing alone.

More amazing authors that I'm salivating over: Transemacabre, LuvCMPunk314, XMasTreeLights, and Haunted-Mind-14. This doesn't even begin to summarize all the talent in this fandom, but it's the best my sleep depraved mind can drum up at the moment.

Ok - enough of my rambling - on to the fic! This starts out where "Ice Cold" leaves off.

Punk cries out and pulses into Dean's mouth, his taste rapidly filling Dean's entire being. Dean waits for Punk to finish completely before swallowing the whole load at once. Their eyes meet again and Dean feels their mutual euphoria momentarily connecting them.

"You always break so fucking easily for me," Dean says.

Punk nods once – a barely perceptible thing – and closes his eyes.

Dean licks his lips, savoring the taste of Punk's defeat on his lips and tongue. He can't help but glance up again, to drink down the image of his ownership over this man - this wonderful, complex, falsely self-righteous motherfucker. This beautiful, stubborn, delusional motherfucker. Fucking Punk: full of so many lies and truths that he can't even begin to pull them apart. And he's so fucking passionate about every single one of them… naively believes them all to be truths. He's too fucking stubborn.

But that's why Dean likes him. There's a purity to that stubbornness, and Dean wants to corrupt him fully. Wants Punk to see what is. But that's not Dean's call to make. Even Dean can accept this basic, unwavering truth.

Dean lets his weight loll back slightly, and he makes eye contact with Punk again. He's mildly surprised that Punk mans up enough to meet his eyes, willing to expose more of himself than those beautiful fucking eyelashes. Dean's pleased to see the shining hazel of Punk's irises, see them grow larger as Punk's pupils finally shrink to a human size.

He doesn't have to look into Punk's eyes for too long to see his thoughts roll across. Dean laughs - God, Punk just wears his fucking heart on his sleeve, doesn't he? He knows what Punk is thinking: Dean's resting there, on his fucking knees, and he's all male.

Fuck, he's still Shielded-out too. Full gear. Covered from head to toe - nothing slutty about him except his well-fucked mouth.

Literally - Dean can't think of one feminine component of himself - not like fucking Seth or anything. His hair doesn't grow out nice or long or anything… hell, he's tried, but he just looks stupid like that. He doesn't have full or pouty lips. His eyelashes are curly but they're not thick. He's tall and lean, with an ass a white guy was meant to have, muscular and slight at best.

But Punk still can't fucking keep his hands off him - or rather, his cock away from Dean's throat for too long - and Dean finds that even more enticing. Fucking straight and narrow CM Punk can't resist his fucking maleness. When will he learn? GOD, when will Punk fucking learn?

But shit… that's not Dean's problem. Punk - that motherfucker can come to his own conclusions on his own time - Dean's gotten what he wanted from the man. Dean regards his own throbbing cock only for a second - Dean's gotten almost everything he wants. As tempting as it is to watch eventual emotion after emotion turn Punk's hazel eyes to black, Dean's eyes instead catch the hands of the clock behind Punk's head. Dean's still hungry, and he smiles.

Roman and Seth are done with their match.

Those fucking bastards… exciting him to the point of insanity and leaving him all by himself to suffer…

Dean lifts off his knees, shifts on the balls of feet, rotates smoothly, his back quickly and swiftly to Punk.

He shoulders his title and stalks to the door - it's fucking time, already - flicks the lock between his thumb and forefinger.

"Where are you going?!"

Dean freezes momentarily. He's surprised to hear the… shit, is that panic?… in Punk's voice as he moves to leave the room. He's surprised to hear Punk's voice at all.

Dean remains still. He doesn't turn to face Punk… not yet. This fucking transparent motherfucker: he's speaking long before he even begins thinking, cum-drained and dazed.

"I'm leaving," Dean states simply.

Dean lets the words breathe, lets them resonate - lets them fill this claustrophobic, dense space.

Dean was feeling at peace before, but if he understands one thing about himself, it's that he's a temperamental man, changing moods at the speed of light.

And now he feels antagonistic.

Dean can feel Punk's desire to speak hanging in the air, but he knows Punk won't. Knows he can't. He doesn't even have the words to speak. The first words were an impulse, a mistake.

Dean spins on his heels, the movement concise and stilted, whipping his own hair into his eyes in the process. He laughs when he sees Punk, looking exactly like he thought he would, confused and like a deer in fucking headlights.

Dean really wants to kiss him right now. Real fast and real hard. Make him taste his own cum and the blood that he spilled. Make him understand. Make him see. Make him feel beyond denial.

But there Dean goes again… circling this same idea like a hawk.

That's not how these things end.

Dean laughs again, mean and disappointed - in Punk and in himself. "I'm a faggot," Dean sneers, voice dripping with sarcasm. He raises his eyebrows incredulously at Punk, "Right?"

Punk swallows and glances down at the floor briefly before meeting Dean's eyes again. "I didn't say - "

Dean's not listening.

"I'm gonna go do what faggots do," Dean raises his eyebrows again, mockingly. "I'm gonna go suck more cock."

Punk's eyes go wide at the crude admission. His lips part, and Dean's cock jumps in his pants. Dean notices Punk's breathing go shallow and his eyes go dark again.

"Yeah," Dean confirms, answering a question that was never asked. "I'm gonna go suck more cock," Dean blinks slowly, bows his head slightly to look at Punk through his eyelashes, "And you're gonna go back to your hotel room and pretend that your dick doesn't get hard just imagining it."

Punk's lips part further in shock even as his eyes ignite in anger.

Dean opens the door, eases backwards into the doorway. He could leave it like that. The damage has been done. But he's not good at leaving things alone.

"You know, this fucking system we got going on here," he gestures casually between himself and Punk, "seems to work real well, doesn't it?"

Dean turns his back again and steps out of the room, but not before catching Punk's eyes shift from confused anger to burning rage. Dean closes the door behind him just before he hears - something - crash against it and break.

"Fuck you!" is the semi-muffled scream that immediately follows the sound of breaking glass from behind the door.

Dean smiles to himself before he comes face to face with two crew members (well, face to chest - these dudes aren't that big), stopping in their tracks at the commotion and Dean's disheveled appearance.

Dean laughs, regards them as if they've been his best friends for years. He throws his hands around and gestures to Punk's room with wildly overstated incredulity. "The fuck's that all about?!" He claps them both on the shoulder too hard, "Am I right?"

He shakes his head and walks off before the two men could even dream of answering him.