Dean had smoked a fair amount of marijuana in his time. He'd smoked everything from the regular home-grown skank he could bum off of locals to orange cush. He'd had Indica Sativa, Bango, Acapulco Gold, and Toledo Window Box. Before...well...before everything, he had used to have to sneak around behind his father's back when they were on a hunt. Even after Sammy had left to college, Dean still had to hide his guilty pleasure. Sure, he was old enough to make decisions for himself, and they did all sorts of morally questionable things in order to get by, but John had always had a firm foot planted on the ground when it came to drugs. His only problem now was that the job moved him and Sam around so much that he had no steady dealer. Every time they hit a new city, he was on his own to scope out the good shit.

"Dean, come on. What're we doing out here? We should be at the hotel searching for missing persons or mysterious deaths. And it's frigging cold, incase you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I noticed, Sammy. You could cut glass with those nipples."

Sam gave Dean a look. THE look. The one that said "Fuck you in the hardest way sans lube." And Dean only chuckled.

"Alright, Sam. Look. We're only here for the night if we don't find anything, anyway, right? And so...if we don't find anything, that means we'll only be moving on to that cold case ghost hunt tomorrow morning. It's not a big deal."

"Unless we miss something here, Dean."

"Well obviously there's not a whole lot to miss. We didn't come across anything in the papers, did we? Nothing's going on here that we know of. And what we don't know can't hurt us."

"Are you this lazy and selfish that you'd put the safety of others in question just because you're jonesing for weed?"

Dean popped his neck and cocked his head to look at his brother who was leaning against the back of the bench with his arms crossed over his chest, obviously annoyed. But it was strange...Sam had never seemed this upset with him on his previous weed-runs.

"Maybe if you tried some, you'd loosen up a little."

"I don't think so, Dean. And I have tried it before. It just made me cough until I threw up. And then I got a stomach ache."

"Where were you? A dorm party?"

"Matter of fact, I was."

Dean laughed. "Oh, Sammy. Were you drunk, too?"

"Yeah..."

"Then that's why you threw up. Man, if you were just smoking, you might've dry-heaved, but you wouldn't have actually blown chunks."

"I just don't see what the big deal is. It's not like it's addictive."

"Sam. You have no idea. They used to say the same thing about cigarettes, you know."

"No, Dean. I had to take a course in botany, and my professor knew everything there was to know. Guess why."

"He toked?"

"No, Dean. He dealt. He was a genius, man. I'm telling you. He knew everything there was to know about marijuana."

"He dealt to students? Why'd he tell a narc like you?"

"He didn't, smartass." Sam squinted. "Just because I didn't smoke it doesn't mean I didn't have friends who did. They told me."

"Ah. Well did this professor ever tell you about the medicinal values of marijuana? About how it has the ability to stave off Alzheimer's and heart disease? And you can save your lungs by cooking it into food or using a humidifier? Man, it's of the earth. And it's not like it trips me out like LSD."

"Have you ever done LSD, Dean?"

"Yeah. Once."

"I thought you said you never did manufactured drugs."

"LSD comes from Rye, wise-ass. It's from a fungus."

"It's still cultured. What about pain pills. I've seen you pop a morphine from a prescription of Dad's from 6 year's ago."

"Okay...well...that doesn't count. I had a dislocated shoulder."

"And the time you smoked that incense?"

"That was Salvia. Again, a plant. You just have to get it in incense form if you're getting it at a head shop."

"Same difference. It smelled like chemicals."

Dean looked at Sam's face, which read like a copy of Soaps Weekly. Something was seriously wrong with him tonight.

"You really have a problem with it, don't you?"

"It's not that, Dean. It's just that I'm sitting with you downtown in Little Rock, Arkansas, waiting for you to sight a drug deal so that you can score a bag for yourself."

"Um...I'd share if you wanted me to."

"I don't want you to share, Dean. It's just that...this is all about you. Last week when we were in Tennessee, I told you I wanted to check out the Memphis Symphonic Sunday night, but you wanted to hustle pool. And look where we ended up. Sitting in some dank bar that didn't even have a pool table, listening to some bad twang band and drinking water down beer."

"How could you have expected me to sit through classical music without pot? I've been dry for weeks, man. I need this."

Sam sighed. "Alright. But promise me that next time I see something that I wanna do, we'll do it."

"Alright. As long as I can get high before whatever it is. Because, Sammy...I can't do another day at the museum without drugs. I just can't."

"That was your own fault for playing tail-chase with that art historian."

"She was hot, Sam. And intellectual. I thought you approved."

"I did. But she would've been better suited for me."

"I'm not going to argue with you there. I had to fake my way through a conversation on something called Dadaism."

"Hah. Hey." Sam nudged his brother's shoulder and pointed in the direction of a big-ass Crown Vic painted chrome blue.

The Vic had rims. Things were looking good for Dean.

"Score. Sit tight, though, that Buick's pulling up beside it."

They watched as a small exchange was made through the open windows of both hoopties and next thing Sam knew, Dean was up, running for the Crown Victoria as the Buick sped off.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted, in fear for his brother's life. "Don't get yourself shot running up to a dru-..." He looked around and then decided to just...not finish that sentence.

Dean came around to the driver's side of the car and Sam watched as he leaned his head in, probably making small talk with the alleged dealer. Dean's hand could be seen petting the finish on the car, and then his arm came up to rest on the hood as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. That was definitely more cash than necessary for Dean's usual ounce. What was he buying? A solid brick of the stuff? Sam sincerely hoped not. Dean waved shoved something in his pocket, jogging back to sit beside Sammy.

"You got your stuff?"

"I...made an exchange."

"I'll say." Sam said, sounding slightly ticked off and accusatory. "That was a big-ass wad of cash you handed over."

"He wasn't a drug dealer." Dean said. Smirking slyly.

"Then what the hell was he, Dean. Because I thought that's what we were here for."

"He specializes in illegal firearms."

"And what? You were paying him off not to shoot you for molesting his car?"

"No, Sammy. I got you a present." Dean opened his jacket to let Sam see inside his breast-pocket.

"Holy shit, Dean. That's a Glock 18. I've wanted one of those since I was, what, 9?"

"Yeah, well...happy birthday. I'm sorry I forgot. It wasn't until I saw the date on the sign from across the street that I realized." Dean smiled, and then leaned in to kiss Sam lightly on the cheek. "Hope you like it. I'm going to be dry for a few more weeks, it seems."

"I love it. Because now, if you bitch to me about not having weed, I can just shoot you."

THE END

AN: Extreme crack. Of the crackiest variety. Drugs, illegal firearms, and a forgotten birthday. Fun times, I hope. I had fun writing it. But then, I have hydrocodon, and it might not be as funny as I think it is. (Gee...I wonder what inspired the theme. Lol)