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The Retraining of Dean Winchester

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“Hey, get up.”

Dean is groggy, a little hung over, and probably a lot punch drunk. The last thing he remembers is the bar. They were hustling pool, maybe cheating at cards before that.

“You hear me? Get up!”

His response is to lift a middle finger towards the sound of the voice and run a hand over his eyes. When he takes it away he realizes he is in a cinderblock room. Dean pats over his pockets and finds that his gun, lockpick set, and everything else he carries on him is gone. “Fuck,” he grumbles as he pushes up to seated, the unmistakable surroundings of a jail cell coming into view.

“Yeah you’re fucked alright.” Dean squints and a cop with a smug face is standing past the bars. “Got you on illegal gambling, fake IDs and credit cards, weapons possession, assault. No bail, no nothing. Now get up, I’m transferring you to gen-pop.”

“Did you find a bottle of pills on me?” He asks as he gets up and moves to the cell door, turning without being told so his hands are behind his back where the cop can cuff him. This isn’t his first arrest, dad will get him out soon enough. It can’t hurt to be polite though, because there is no way he’s going to survive this without those pills. “They’re important, for my heart.”

“Doc is examining them right now,” the cop grunts as he snaps cuffs onto Dean’s wrists. “We’ll give them to you if they’re legit.”

Shit, fuck, goddamnit. Dean hangs his head as he’s brought to general population. He probably has an hour or so before the doctor figures out what his pills are, which he supposes is better than the prisoners figuring it out. With a huff he takes the first seat he finds from the door, knowing it’s only a matter of time before they come for him.

Neither the guards nor the doctor ever come. Dean is starting to get worried. The last time he was without suppressants he had gone into heat just under a week later. So he had what a couple of days? How long had he been out? He keeps away from the other prisoners, ignoring their cat calls and insistence that he’s pretty, staying on his guard at all times.

Dean is struggling to keep his eyes open when a burly inmate with a scarred face approaches him. “You smell funny.”

“No real chance to take a shower,” he tries to play it off with a laugh though he’s never been more scared. It takes the other prisoner a minute to figure out where he’s smelled the odor before, allowing Dean to start sneaking off. He backs up into the body of another inmate and his arm is captured, twisting him around.
“It’s an omega,” the new attacker says joyfully. “Look at you, you precious thing.”

“I knew he was too pretty to be anything else,” the scarred inmate agrees and licks his lips.

Dean swings, his fist making contact with his captor’s face and tries to wrest out of his grip. A fist then hits his temple, causing him to stumble, and he’s being frog walked into a cell, the attackers yelling to the occupant that they’ve got a present for him. He is pushed down onto a bed and two men hold his arms down as someone else starts working at his removing the prison issued jumpsuit. The omega screams and kicks until someone shoves something in his mouth and his legs are held out and up.

He can feel someone settling on the bed between his legs and Dean closes his eyes, resigning himself to the fact that this is happening to him. Nothing he can do with this many people against one. He doesn’t fight it, because usually they like it when the victim does and inhales as he feels tears leak out of his eyes.

Suddenly there are no hands on him and the weight of the person in the bed with him is missing. He opens his eyes and sees several guards with pepper spray canisters and batons, crowding the entrance to the cell. Gentle but firm hands help him up and get his boxers and pants back up around his waist. In a daze, Dean is guided out of gen-pop to a cell somewhere else in the prison. He succumbs to sleep as soon as he’s laid on the bed, knowing inherently that this is safe.

“Wake up sweetie,” a syrupy voice coos to him.

He shoots up, nearly knocking the tray out of the woman’s hands. Dean looks at her with wide eyes, taking in a petite nurse with brown hair and a fake smile.

“We got to you just in time,” she says as she steadies the tray and sets it on the bedside table. “It’s prison food but we felt so bad for you, we dug into our own lunches to get you some cookies.”

Dean grumbles, already hating how differently he is being treated. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Don’t worry, sweetie, they’re dropping the charges and whoever did this to you is going to go away for a long time,” she says as she retreats and leans against the wall by the door. “Now in order for us to help you, we need your name. Your real one.”

Dean swallows, other than his father all of his relatives were dead. “John Bonham,” he states, “and no one did this to me, I was out on my own.” No sense in getting his dad arrested too.

“Now, we both know that’s not true, but you’ve had a rough day and you need to eat and get some more rest.” Her nametag says Masters. “Do you have a relative we can contact? Someone that can come get you?”

“They’re all dead,” he states and looks at the wall.

“I’m sorry to hear that, baby,” she says sweetly. “Enjoy your cookies.”

Dean sighs and settles back into the bed. God he hoped his dad had a plan for getting his ass out of here.

He ends up eating the cookies after all. Dean’s stomach is growling the next time he wakes up and the rest of the food looks too damn unappetizing to even attempt. He knows this does nothing to disprove the fact that he’s a childlike creature that needs care but he’s hungry damnit and that will have to do.

Nurse Masters comes back in after what feels like hours alone. She smiles sweetly at him and holds up a stack of clothing. “John Bonham is the drummer from Led Zeppelin,” she says with disappointment. “If you keep lying to us there is no way we can help you. Now, come on sweetie, what’s your real name?

“Those are not my clothes.”

“They now are, hon,” she chirps with enthusiasm and sets the stack at the foot of the bed. “Those other clothes were not very omega-like, this is better. Now come on and stand up, I can help you get changed.”

Dean snorts at the idea that someone he has nearly a foot and a hundred pounds on is going to help, or force him do anything. “You mean those robes they make the omegas wear,” he says with derision.

“Your case worker is coming to talk to you,” Nurse Masters informs him as she backs off to the door, leaning against it. “If you don’t tell us who you are or where your family is we have no choice but to hand you over to the state.”

“Case worker? The state?” Dean inhales and tries to keep his voice steady as the gravity of the situation hits him. He has no rights now. The very thought of losing his freedom is making his stomach feel hollow and his chest ache.

“Yes, dear, if you have no family, we have to let the state handle your case,” the nurse explains, looking at her fingernails before looking back over at the omega.

“I honestly don’t though,” he responds because it’s true if he didn’t count his father who probably had too long of a rap sheet to be considered fit to care for an omega. Besides if his father really wanted him back wouldn’t he have come for him by now?

“I can see you’re going to be difficult which is unfortunate,” Masters shakes her head with false disappointment. “Maybe you’ll be more interested in talking to your case worker. He will explain how things will go for you if you don’t start cooperating.”

Dean shrugs and lays back on the bed, facing the wall. The nurse thankfully has no more ingratiating comments to make and leaves. He wants to cry, to mourn the loss of his freedom and free will. Omegas were treated as children, coddled and kept like playthings. Sometimes they were even sold outright, Alphas buying them because a child birthed from an omega was guaranteed to be another alpha. Not even female alphas could promise that.

He stairs at the painted cinderblock for hours, nearly drowning in the uncertainty of his future. There had to be a way to escape. Find some pills, maybe get a job in a garage or tending bar, something where the boss wouldn’t ask too many questions.

There is a knock on his cell’s door, which sort of startles him since the nurse never gave him that much courtesy before. Dean pushes up to sit on the edge of the bed and hollers to come in since he doesn’t think refusing would do much good. A surly, bearded man in a suit and tie comes through the door, a frown set in the whiskers.

“You need to change,” bearded guy states and shakes his head. “I don’t know who kept you out there but certain things are done for decency and wearing the proper clothes is one of them.”

“Funny that when everyone thought I was a alpha,” Dean looks up at the bearded guy with a noxious smile, “people looked at me in the face, they didn’t die, ice caps stayed frozen, the gods stayed in their heavens. What’s different now?”

“Etiquette and respect,” he barks back, to which Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. “Nurse Masters says you told her all your relatives are dead.”

“Because it’s true,” the omega states flatly.

“Have you ever seen a state run mental institution, boy?”

Dean shakes his head and snorts indignantly. “I saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

“Then you know that what’s waiting for you after this place is going to be no picnic,” he says as he shifts his position. “You see you’re too old to go to an omega’s school and you’re going to need mental health care after what happened to you. So the loony bin is the only place that will take you.”

He rolls his eyes at that. “You know for someone that apparently had a traumatic ordeal, I feel fine, great even.”

“If you give me your real name I can research and see if there anyone that is related to you, even remotely that can come and take custody of you.”

Dean sighs and looks at his lap. Did he have distant relatives that were alive? Would they even give a shit? Maybe he would luck out and they would be part of the small group that thought omegas shouldn’t be marginalized. Not that it was likely. Though escape would be more likely from a house than a prison cell.

“Dean Winchester.” He closes his eyes and sets his jaw, hoping he wouldn’t regret this.

“I’m Bobby Singer,” the bearded man states. “I will do my best to make sure you stay out of the system.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean huffs. Singer starts to say something but changes his mind. “I’m starving,” Dean states. “Please get them to bring me something.”

“I will.” With that Singer is gone. Dean flops on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, hoping that he has an extremely liberal relative somewhere.

He wakes when the knocking sounds again, unaware he had drifted off. Singer doesn’t wait for him to answer though, instead throwing open the door and tossing a brown paper bag at Dean.

“Don’t know why I got you that after you lied to me,” he growls, face puce with anger.

“Lied?” Dean’s confused and sleepy, the accusation carries no bite. “I didn’t lie.”

“There is a missing persons report filed on you, from fifteen years ago. Your brother’s been keeping it up.”

“My brother," Dean shakes his head and gives Mr. Singer and honestly confused look. "My brother is dead. He and my mom died in a house fire.”

Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose, his anger subsiding when he sees Dean's expression. Kid wasn't lying. “That what your dad told you?”

“Well yeah.”

“You know he’s wanted for kidnapping you and arson charges, that he’s wanted in the very house fire you just mentioned?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Sammy is alive? Is my mom?”

“I’m sorry kid but no, though it was last year, not fifteen years ago.”

Dean nods and looks in the bag. The burger and fries would have his mouth watering any other time but now it’s going to be a chore to choke it down. "I need time to process this."

"I understand, kid. I'll be back when I have more information."

Bobby closes the door behind him, the sound seems more final this time. Unless his brother lets him stay, Dean is going to end up in one of those touchy feely omega schools and there's nothing he can do about it The food sits in his lap untouched as he stares at the steel door in front of him.