Rating: PG - Gen
Warnings: Stoned Winchesters
Spoilers: General (for all aired episodes)
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: The boys get baked.
Sam watched the windshield wipers make their lazy pass across the glass.
For some reason his brother always left them on the slowest possible setting that the car possessed no matter how much of a deluge was transpiring in biblical proportions. Thinking back on it, Sam was aware that their father had had the same mystifying habit. The water just kept coming and coming until it was so completely distorted he wasn’t even sure if they were still on the black top.
Right at the moment when he didn’t think he could take it anymore, the wipers finally snapped back into action. With a pull back and forth, there was once again a fresh clear view of the car’s path solid on its side of the yellow lines.
Sam chewed at the inside of his lip as he watched the frustrating process slowly begin all over again.
“Take the wheel for sec.” Dean said.
Sam quickly looked over at him in startled distress. Without waiting for any kind of agreement, his brother was already half way in the back seat digging around for something.
Grabbing at the wheel with his left hand, Sam awkwardly tried to continue the turn the car was in the middle of, while straining to see through the mess that was recollecting itself on the glass. He hated when Dean asked him to drive from the passenger seat. In a moment of indignant self empowerment, he flipped the wiper speed up to the fastest it could go, a steady squeak and swish as the rubber did its job.
When he saw what Dean had reappeared with, he groaned.
“What?” His brother demanded.
Sam ground his teeth at the sight of the neatly rolled thing that looked like some old skool cigarette. But Dean didn’t smoke cigarettes any more often than he sipped brandy out of one of those fancy snifters by a majestic fireplace to orchestra music. He did smoke something else on occasion however. It was just usually not in a moving car Sam was steering from the passenger seat in the middle of a night time downpour.
"You can’t—you can’t smoke that while yer driving!”
Dean licked the tip before giving its weight and shape his professional appraisal.
“I’m not driving.” He helpfully pointed out.
Sam hadn’t even seen the motel until they were almost on top of it. Dean took the wheel from him and banked a sharp right into its practically empty parking lot, gliding the car into the furthest space from the office lights and twisting the ignition so the radio would stay on.
“By the way...” Dean mumbled as he carefully rolled the end of it over the flame of his Zippo. “Yer not getting any.”
Sam didn’t really want any anyway but the announcement annoyed him.
“Because.” Dean shrugged as he blew out the singed end, letting an ember remain to smolder. “You go completely fucking retarded.”
Sam felt his eyes narrow at his brother and then felt his mouth open and close several times. It was the usual routine of flustered outrage he performed when he knew his brother was totally right and there was no room left for the slightest rebuttal. He sat back into his seat, clearing his throat when the heady aroma of the stuff started wafting around the car like the lingering heavy hang of gun smoke.
Fortunately for Sam, like all his family, he knew how to create something to say even when they really had nothing left at all to retort. It was a petty superpower but it was all theirs and Sam knew never to let it go to waste.
“What do you think you’re like?” Sam asked as he crossed his arms. “The freaking poet laureate?”
Dean looked over at him in disgust as he slowly exhaled white curls of his soon to be buzz. “The freaking what?”
“You think you’re some fount of groovy song lyrics and deep cosmic insight with this shit?” Sam asked with a smile. “Cuz I’m telling you right now Dean, you pretty much end up ranting about the genius of those stupid GEICO commercials and eating about a metric ton of pork rinds—“
“Fine.” Dean shoved the joint towards his brother.
Sam wasn’t entirely sure taking a hit off the thing was completely necessary considering the entire inside of the car was in a fog so dense he could barely make out the backseat. Coughing slightly and waving a hand in front of his face he was tempted to crack a window just for some untainted air. A paranoia not born from any chemical intake stopped him when he saw a few people wander across the glistening rain wet pavement to the glow of the soda machine.
The second hand smoke was doing some pleasant things to the small headache he’d been nursing since the weather started and the sun went down. In fact, the idea of relaxing just a little bit suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea at all.
But looking down at the smoking joint in his hand, he paused and nervously fidgeted, hesitant to bring it to his mouth.
“Oh, what?” Dean sighed. “Are you serious?”
“Just once.” Sam promised.
Dean took back the joint and deeply inhaled off it again. Holding it in, he motioned Sam over to him. Struggling to keep the draw of smoke in, he yanked Sam closer when he didn’t sit up forward quite enough.
Sam leaned over feeling like he was about sixteen again and his brother had finally let him on the beauties of the certain tamer recreational drugs the sunny wide world of the normal had to offer. He’d never been able to just take a drag off the unfiltered paper, it always felt like what he imagined fire rushing up the back blackened walls of a brick flume felt like. The few times he’d attempted it his throat had ached for days. But lucky for him, Dean always knew a way around just about anything.
“’eady?” Dean choked around his held breath.
Pausing a few centimeters from Sam’s face, Dean gently blew his hit into his brother’s open mouth.
Sam knew they, whoever they were, called the maneuver ‘a shotgun’. It had actually started somewhere out there by blowing your own drag into someone else’s mouth through the long empty barrel of a firearm. Considering how many times Dean had performed this mercy act in the name of helping his brother get a little fucked up, Sam was surprised that an actual shotgun had never been used.
Sam inhaled as slowly as Dean exhaled, feeling his chest rise. Dean drew back and fell back into his seat when there was nothing left to give. It settled tight and deep in his lungs, and he held onto it for a few moments before coughing it all harshly back out.
Almost immediately, the inside of the car seemed like a very different and rosy place. The seat seemed softer, the music shifting to a song that made him smile and point at it like some magic trick had just been performed on the airwaves just for his benefit.
Dean shook his head, his eyes already going half mast.
“Oh man, we should have checked in first.”
Sam happily nodded, waiting for the shift in the cords he knew was coming.
“Those GEICO commercials are funny.” Dean muttered, bringing the joint back up to his lips.
“I can feel my boots.” Sam carefully annunciated.
Dean nodded from beside him.
“I think I can feel your boots too.”
Sam began to consider how strange that was but was quickly distracted by how fast he could change stations and make his own songs up by jerking the dial back and forth.
Dean settled back into his seat with a brief sigh.
“I think maybe we should just sleep in here tonight.”
Upon watching the radio grin back up to him, Sam silently agreed.