#roofied!dean

[saucynewf]

Rumpled and roofied scruffy!Dean for Yvonne. Happy Birthday, sweetie! 💗

[datemeimasuperhero-blog]

I kind of got intrigued by my own request for a roofied!dean so I wrote up a little something.

Sixteen year old Dean goes to a bar and gets more than he bargained for.

Warnings: Some people may be icked by drugs and the drugging. Just know, that's what this little one-shot's about.

Another bar. This one, from the looks of the place, wasn’t likely to look too closely at Dean’s fake ID. If he got booted out of this one too the next closest bar was about a twenty minute drive and Dean wasn’t sure it would be worth it.

The bartender squinted at him, tried to discern just how young he was, but the light was dim enough and the bartender’s eyes were bad enough that Dean must have squeaked by. “What do you want?”

“Whiskey,” Dean said. Dad’s drink of choice, Dean knew, but he wasn’t really old enough to know what else to be getting.

The glass was placed in front of him without much pomp or circumstance and he swallowed it down. “Another. Please.”

“Sure thing,” the bartender snapped.

Someone took a seat next to him. Dean cast a glare their way, maybe hoping they’d jump down two or three stools so they weren’t sitting right on top of him. He muttered, “What? The bar not big enough for the two of us?”

Apparently he didn’t mutter quietly enough. “Perhaps I was looking to talk to you. You got a problem with company?”

Dean fought the blush he knew was heading to his cheeks. “Look, man, I just want to be alone. I’ll move.”

Dean made to stand up and the man grabbed his shoulder and roughly shoved him back in his seat. “Nah. I don’t want to put you out. Let me have a drink or two and I’ll get out of your way.”

“Whatever,” Dean snapped. He sized up the man, a hulking man with big muscles and more height then Dean’s father. He was certainly bigger than Dean. John Winchester had raised his boys to protect themselves but Dean wasn’t sure he could take this one on.

When the bartender came back he asked the man for his order. “Same as the kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Dean said. One didn’t get to be a kid if they’d already killed something.

“You can’t be more than sixteen,” the man said with a snort.

Spot on there, Sherlock, Dean thought. He tapped the ID on the counter. “Twenty-one.”

Another snort as the man picked up the ID to analyze it. “Faker than a model’s chest.”

Dean shot him a look and then shrugged. “Fine. I’m eighteen. But I sure as hell ain’t a sixteen year old kid.”

“Like that two year difference means anything,” the man said, but he didn’t say anything more than that on the subject. “Got yourself some whiskey? I’m a whiskey man myself.”

“How wonderful for you,” Dean replied.

“Boy your age usually sticks to the beers and such,” the man said. The bartender brought him his drink, watched him drain it, and then took it away to fill it up again.

Dean shrugged. “Whiskey is my dad’s drink and I needed something stronger than beer.”

“Sounds like I’d like your old man,” the man said.

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

“You got a bit of an attitude problem, kid,” the man said.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me kid,” Dean replied.

“You got a bit of an attitude problem, boy,” he corrected.

Dean swallowed down the remnants of his glass and stood again. “Never mind. I’ll move.”

Once again the man grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back onto the seat. “Now I said if you gave me a couple of drinks I’d move from your way. Have some patience, boy.”

Dean ground his teeth together but positioned himself comfortably on the chair. “Fine. Have your drinks and be gone.”

The bartender came back and gave the man his drink. Dean watched him drink it and then set it on the counter. “One more for me and then one for the kid- sorry, the boy.”

The man pulled a bill out of his pocket and handed it to the bartender who looked at it and nodded before walking away. The man looked at Dean with a big grin. “I want to make it up to you. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Dean said with a sigh. The man only wanted one more drink and then he’d leave. He would leave and Dean could have the peace he so badly desired.

The bartender brought back the drinks and placed one in front of Dean and one in front of the man. The man just looked down at his drink. He sat there, waiting, and finally said, “Well, aren’t you going to drink yours?”

“What do you care?” Dean asked.

“You want me to leave, I get that. But we’re going to handle this like men and have a drink together,” he said.

Dean rolled his eyes for real this time. He tossed the glass back, emptying it of its contents, and then slamming it onto the counter with more muster than was necessary. “There. Happy?”

The man smiled and took a small sip of his drink. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Dean knew the man was nursing the drink to anger him so he didn’t say anything, just waited him out. He could feel the buzz kicking in, hitting him with warmth and flow. When the bartender came back he said, “I’m gonna switch to beer.”

“Can’t hold your whiskey?” the man chuckled.

Dean scowled. “If I want your commentary on my drinking I’ll ask for it.”

“Sure,” the man replied but the smile didn’t go away.

Dean drank from the bottle the moment it was placed in front of him but he drank only a sip. He was uncomfortable. The alcohol, it seemed, was hitting him a bit harder than usual. He was already well past buzzed and in the realms of tipsy now. He prided himself on being able to hold his liquor better than this and mentally chided himself for faltering now, in front of this man, of all times and places.

The man watched him carefully. “Feeling okay there, boy?”

Dean blinked the haze away and then glared at him. “I’m fine. Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?”

The man held up his still mostly full glass of whiskey. “As soon as I finish this drink.”

Dean wished desperately that he would hurry up and get it over with. He stood, again, and felt the earth shift beneath his feet. Three glasses of whiskey and half a beer and he was pretty sure the bar was made of silly putty. The man reached for his shoulder but Dean quickly dodged and took a step back. That was too much for his inebriated brain which sent the world spinning before his eyes and threatened to have him on the floor in a second. “Back off.”

“You don’t look so good, kid,” the man said. He was still smiling.

“Don’t call me that,” Dean said. Or at least, he tried to say it but it just came out slurred and broken and he wasn’t altogether sure he’d even made it to the end of the sentence. He spun on his heel, tried not to fall over in the process, and booked it out of the bar by following the glowing light of the exit sign. He found himself out back, in the alley, standing in a puddle of what he hoped was rainwater. He stumbled forward, thought the wall was closer than it actually was, and nearly fell face first onto the pavement. Then the wall was far away and Dean raced for it but it was right in front of his face and he smacked nose first. His forehead lit up with agonizing pain and he half tumbled and half collapsed onto the ground with a painful thump. He was past drunk and right there on the verge of sick and not feeling any of the happy, warm, inebriated glow of being drunk that he usually felt.

“You don’t look good at all, kid,” the man said.

Dean didn’t remember him walking out but Dean didn’t remember a lot of things. Like, how to stand or which way was up. He reached a hand back, tried to find the wall again, but found only empty air. “Go fuck yourself.”

The man reached down and grabbed a fistful of Dean’s shirt and yanked him up until his toes just brushed the pavement. Dean blindly grabbed at his arm but his attempts were weak and tired. The man’s breath smelt like alcohol and something stronger. “Kid, you got a lot of fight in you. I’ll give you that.”

Dean wanted to fight but his eyes kept trying to close and the energy was leaving him more and more every second. He felt himself going slack.

A gunshot sounded. In the confines of the alley it sounded louder, more, than it actually was. “Put him down!”

Dean recognized that voice. Well, he thought he recognized the voice. He should know who the voice belonged to if he recognized it and he didn’t know who it belonged to. He only knew that it sounded familiar, or maybe it didn’t. The man didn’t let him go. “Go to hell, man. This ain’t none of your business.”

“Put him down or the next bullet goes through your brain,” the voice said.

Dean was on the ground. He had been in the air, he was fairly certain of that, but now he wasn’t and he hadn’t the slightest idea of how he’d gotten down here. His head bounced a bit on the hard blacktop beneath him but that would be okay because Dean was going to sleep. He was fairly certain that’s what he was supposed to be doing since he’s eyelids were drooping like they were pretty sure. Footsteps, running away, and then footsteps, running closer. Somebody smacked his face and he opened his eyes. A broken grunt might have made it out of his lips. Did it mean anything?

“Dean? Damn it! Dean!” the voice said.

He pried his eyes open, maybe he hadn’t opened them before, and looked up. A blurry set of colors and shapes and they formed a face. A familiar face. His dad’s face. Dean smiled. “Dad.”

John smiled too. “Yeah, son, it’s me. How are you feeling?”

“Good. No, maybe not. I think…” Dean trailed off. Whatever he’d been thinking hadn’t been important enough of a thought to hold onto.

“You’ve been drugged,” John said.

Dean frowned. “I don’t use drugs, Dad.”

“I didn’t say you took drugs, I said you were drugged,” John replied. “Roofies by the looks of you.”

None of that made any sense to Dean who shut his eyes again and relaxed his limbs. He heard the voice, that familiar voice from before, say, “I’m gonna get you home, son, and then we’re gonna have a talk.”

Dean woke up with a headache like a high school marching band had done a halftime show in his head. He groaned and carefully sat up, held his head to protect his eyes from the light. “Hello?”

“I’m betting you’re feeling pretty wonderful right now,” John said.

Dean snorted. “You’d lose that bet.”

“I’m going to turn the light off. There’s two Tylenol in a paper cup and a bottle of water on the nightstand next to the bed. I would suggest you start there,” he said.

The light disappeared and Dean felt around on the table until he found the promised treasure. He threw the Tylenol in his mouth and then drained half the water bottle. “I feel like shit. I don’t remember getting that wasted.”

“What do you remember?” his dad asked.

Dean closed his eyes, that felt better anyways, and then said, “I, uh, went to the bar. I got kicked out of the first one. I went to a different bar. Had some drinks. Got into a bit of an argument with some ass with an attitude problem.”

You got a bit of an attitude problem, kid. I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me kid. You got a bit of an attitude problem, boy.

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know. After that it gets kind of fuzzy.”

“You got drugged, son,” John said.

Dean frowned. “By what?”

“Not what. Who,” John replied. “That asshole from the bar? I’d be laying good money that’s our culprit.”

“He’s human,” Dean said.

John snorted. “On a good day, humans are capable of just as much evil as the monsters.”

“He put drugs in my drink?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” John said.

Dean sighed. “Monsters I get. People are crazy.”

“I got some roofies in my duffel. When you’re feeling better, I want you to look at them. Make sure you know what they look like,” John said.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. “Why did he drug me?”

There was a pause. Silence. Hesitation, maybe. John replied, “I don’t know, son. The black market on organs is booming all the time.”

“You mean, he was going to cut me open? Take my…my liver?” Dean asked. He put his hand to his stomach and was relieved to find it smooth and unblemished, no scars or wounds.

“That’s why I want you to know what it looks like,” John said. “Later, though, when you’re feeling better. Go to sleep.”

Dean didn’t need to be told twice.