The story behind the line "Don't take a joint from a guy named Don." I don't own Dean or the line.

Warnings: Drugs, non-con, and swearing. Triggers: rape

18+

Dean was twenty-two. Sam had run off to university about a month ago. He and John had turned separate ways a week prior, Dean to Louisiana for a Rugaru, and John to New Mexico for a chupacabra. Dean had burnt the sucker, but hadn't been able to save the prostitute he'd been munching on. They'd both gone down in the flames at the end.

Dean had gone back to the motel he was in to take a shower. It wasn't really even that late, only ten. Dean decided he'd go to a bar, looking for some stress relief.

Since he was in lower Louisiana, why not go down to the seedy parts? The bar was full of attractive men and women, and the dark corners were filled with a couple or two. Smoke swirled around, he sniffed out cigarettes and pot—his kind of place, then. He went up the tender and ordered tequila and beer. He downed the tequila without hesitation and chased it with the bottle.

A man approached him then, and Dean automatically tensed. This guy had a spacey look in his eyes, and he didn't get too close to Dean.

"Hey, man, I saw you from back there," the guy started.

"Yeah?" Dean replied, looking the guy up and down. He seemed harmless.

"Yeah. You seem like my kinda guy." He tapped his pocket, raised his eyebrows.

"I think I am. Side door in five."

The guy slipped away. Dean was sort of glad that he'd been approached first; it saved him a lot of time. He drained his beer and slunk away to the side door.

The guy was leaning against the side of the building.

"Hold up, man, wanna make sure you ain't a cop," the guy said. "What's your name?"

"What's yours?" Dean replied cheekily.

"M'name's Don."

"Yeah? I'm Ron. What kinda stuff you got for me, Don?"

"I got snow an' some green. What'chya want? Coke's a bit more."

"Give me your jive." Dean pulled out a twenty, and was handed the small baggie in return. There was roll paper in there, too. Damn, this Don guy was nice.

Dean, unfortunately, had gotten enough whiff from the smoke and drunk enough to not understand what was happening.

The two rolled and lit, and started smoking together. It had been a while since Dean's smoked weed; he'd forgotten how much like shit it tasted. It seemed so much nastier now.

After a few puffs, Dean was completely ditched. He'd gotten down on the pavement next to Don a while ago, and Don's hand was down his trousers. He really didn't like that, but it was hard to formulate sentences. After another puff, Dean decided he was okay with it. It wasn't great, given the weird angle, but it wasn't terrible.

All of a sudden, Don was hauling him up, trying to get him to stand.

Dean giggled, "Hey-ey-ey buddy. Do me a solid. Just—just…" Dean didn't know how to finish it. Wow. He was so fucked, more so than he'd ever remembered being.

Next thing Dean knew, he was pressed against a car. A black car.

Hey! It was his car!

Don's hand was in his pants pocket. Dean twisted, looking for friction. When Don pulled the keys out to the Impala and unlocked the car, Dean giggled again. He pulled in another drag of the joint, and he sagged against Don.

Dean really liked this drug. Drugs were nice.

Don shoved him into the back seat of the Impala, and put his joint into Dean's hand. Dean took a pull from both the rolls at the same time. Another.

And he was out cold. Don took both the joints and shoved them to the asphalt. He climbed over Dean and slammed the door.

Don worked Dean's trousers and underpants off, and flipped him over. Don was sober enough to have fun with this.

Don spread Dean's cheeks, and slipped a dry finger in. He liked feeling the pain, liked knowing that his conquests would still feel that same pain for at least another day. He worked in another finger, and another and another, until he had his whole hand inside Dean. Dean was breathing heavy in his sleep, feeling the pain through the drugs.

Don smiled. He removed his hand, unbuttoned his own jeans, and give himself a few strokes. He was painfully hard now, and he knew it was time.

He stuffed himself completely inside Dean, the burn giving him so much pleasure. He pushed in to the hilt. Then he started pounding in roughly, the only thing easing his way was his own precome.

Dean was groaning in discomfort now, but he was still completely unconscious. He'd smoked enough if the mixed drugs to be out for about six hours. Briefly, Don considered keeping Dean for longer, doing so much more. He pushed that idea out—he had to keep to the regime.

He pushed inside Dean harder and harder, until Dean's hips gave a jerk, signalling to Don that he'd hit Dean's prostate. He changed angles. He didn't want this man to feel any pleasure.

When he was close to edge, he stopped and pulled out. He flipped Dean's unconscious form over, opened his mouth. He gave himself a few pumps and came all over Dean's face. He leaned down and violated Dean's mouth with his limp cock, making sure the stranger got a good taste.

Don looked down at Dean's own bare cock. Wow. He couldn't help himself; he had to have a taste. Dean was half-hard, from the hit to the prostate. Don lowered himself and pulled Dean's largeness into his mouth. Don liked to use teeth, liked to be rough as possible.

When Dean's dick was pulsing, needing to come, Don pulled off. There were dark spots, forming bruises, and teeth marks. Don smiled, he liked seeing the pain. There were bruises all along Dean's front, a few on his back, and several on his arse. Don zipped himself up and got out of the vehicle. He scratched a note down on the back of a bar napkin and placed it in the front seat.

Dean woke up to weak light streaming into the Impala's back seat. He was also in immense pain. His head was throbbing, his body felt weak, and hurt all over. He was acutely aware of his nudity, and sat up to pull his jeans back on. He immediately regretted that decision. He looked down at himself; everything was covered in dark purple bruises, even his manhood. What the hell?

His ass was especially tender. Dean had never been in so much pain before in his life, not even when he'd nearly gotten his chest torn through by a bloodthirsty spirit. This was different, extremely sensitive flesh, and he had bruises.

He tried to recall to the previous night, but only got a vague hint of going to a bar. He scooted slowly out of the back seat of his car and gasped at the pain when he stood up. Manoeuvring to the front half was difficult and painful, and bending to get in the front seat was downright torture. There was a note in the seat, scrawled in a man's messy hand.

Thanks man for the good time and the dope

Dean looked in the rear-view mirror at his face. He had a small nick on his lip and there was white crustiness all over his face and neck, and he had a bitterness in his mouth.

In reality, it wasn't that hard to piece together. Even without the memories, he had a basic outline of what had happened the night before.

Dean drove quietly to the motel room, took a shower. He put on a pair of pyjamas and curled under the scratchy blankets.

Dean Winchester was never one to cry. He held his tears in when Sammy left. When his father shouted abuse at them, drunk. When he was being physically destroyed.

But today, Dean Winchester unashamedly sobbed himself to sleep.