Fluffy Pink Clouds
Title: Fluffy Pink Clouds
Author: essenceofmeanin
Rating: R for adult substances and language
Genre/Pairing/Wordcount: Gen/humor, none, and about 2,500.
Summary: Sam and Dean wake up in a mysterious pink heaven, and meet some interesting folk. This is sheer crack of the oh, DEAN! variety.
Disclaimer: They aren’t mine.
Spoilers: You’ve met Sam and Dean, right? Other than that, none at all.
A/N: thanks again for the beta, hansbekhart and girlguidejones! you guys rock.
Sam wakes to an endless expanse of pink. Blushing pink sky rolling off into middle distance. No recognizable landmarks, just fluffy. Pink. Clouds. He’s laying on them like a giant mattress. He summons up the only appropriate reaction.
“What the fuck?”
Something snuffles next to him. “Dude, shut up, they’ll hear you.”
Sam’s on his feet in an instant, reaching for his gun, but not only is he barefoot and unarmed, there’s also no one else there.
He turns slowly around. There’s something small and slightly less pink sticking out of the clouds near his feet. It’s moving slightly. Sam watches for a moment, horrified and curious, until it snuffles loudly, and a hand comes up out of nowhere to rub at what Sam now realizes is a nose. Slowly, tufts of hair start to appear, then his brother’s chest, wafting gently upwards as if borne on the wings of angels. Eventually, Dean’s sprawled boneless atop the clouds, arms and legs akimbo and showing no signs of waking.
“Dean!”
“Seriously, man! We only paid twenty-seven cents for these tickets and the cat’s up next!”
Sam kicks him.
Dean snorts awake, picking threads of cloud from his mouth. He looks blearily around.
“Dude. What did you do?”
Sam spreads his hands wide, stomps his foot. He knows he’s acting twelve again, but goddamn it he can’t help it. Dean rolls onto his back, props himself up on his elbows.
“Where the hell are we?”
Sam sighs the biggest sigh he can possibly manage. It’s pretty big - he pulls his shoulders back for it, draws himself up to his full six feet-and-lots-of-change, heaves in a breath and lets it go so forcefully that Dean grimaces at him, says “Why’re you looking at me like this is my fault?”
“It probably is, Dean! The last thing I remember is going to sleep after I broke up that fight ... that you started. With our luck, that biker chick was probably the head of a fairy clan and you pissed it off! Or maybe the bartender was another trickster and must’ve shoved us into your - your dream, or something!” Sam flops back onto the soft clouds, sending up a puff of fruity smelling dust, and glares at his brother. Dean’s eyes are incredulously wide. He stops to pick a sleep booger out of the corner of one of them before replying.
“No way, man. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I know it sucked when you kicked me. I’m awake; this has gotta be your dream - only you would stick us in some seven year old girl’s idea of heaven. My heaven would have coffee.”
Sam rolls his eyes expansively, scrubs a hand through his hair. “Okay… I know I’m gonna regret this, but there’s an easy way to check.” He sucks in a breath. “Pinch me.”
Dean lights up like it’s Christmas in July at his baby brother offering himself up for voluntary harm. He reaches promptly over with both hands and gives Sam the biggest, fattest Indian burn since they were kids. Sam yelps in surprise and smacks Dean on the side of the head. Dean grabs him, and they go down fighting dirty.
“I said pinch, jackass --”
“Shoulda seen your face -”
They roll across the clouds. Sam whacks Dean’s hands away from his face when Dean goes for his ears and gets an elbow in the solar plexus for it. He curls into himself, gasping. Dean seizes the opportunity and pins Sam’s arms down, grinning victoriously. Sam stares up at his brother, finally noticing that the clouds are not only pink but glittery too, and now so are they. He quickly decides to violate the International Agreement of Men Fighting Fair. He goes for the nut shot, and Dean goes down.
Dean rolls a few feet away, hissing between his teeth. “You sonofabitch,” he wheezes after a moment. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
Sam can’t help the grin, and doesn’t try to stop it. Dean’s hair is sparkly, his eyelashes shimmering in the soft light. Somehow, the presence of glitter just pushed this whole experience from really weird to completely FUBAR. He sighs and plops himself down next to Dean, attempts to brush the glitter out of his hair. Dean growls at him.
“You look like you’ve been screwing a stripper, man.”
“You look like my Saturday morning,” Dean smirks back. Sam stares at him for a minute.
“That doesn’t even really make sense.”
Dean pulls himself painfully into a sitting position, knocks his shoulder against Sam’s. “Sure it does, dude. Just think about it a minute.”
Sam sighs, looks out across the bizarro landscape. “Do you think we’re in heaven?”
“If we are, there better be some angel strippers to justify this fucking glitter.”
Sam looks over at Dean, takes in his brother’s ignorant grinning self. “Angels aren’t gendered. Traditionally they’re - that’s not even the point! How can you not take this seriously? We might be dead for all you know!”
Dean opens his mouth and then snaps it shut with an audible click. His head swivels, sniffing the air. He pops to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, grabs Sam by the elbow and muscles him up. “Dude, ya smell that?”
Sam jerks himself out of Dean’s grip, plants his feet. “No.”
“Whatever, killjoy. It’s ganj, and it’s this way!”
Dean tromps off across the clouds, hands stuck in his pajama pockets and planting his feet like he’s still wearing steel toes. He doesn’t look back to make sure Sam’s keeping up, but yells behind him, “Y’know, jumping back to angels for a minute, I’d totally hit that shit. You don’t think we did all that good to die and not get laid, right? I mean, doesn’t have to be a stripper angel, anything’s fine long as it’s somethin’ somethin’. I don’t always bat for the same team, that’s half the population right there, right?”
Sam stops listening. If Dean’s just gonna babble with his downstairs brain, then Sam needs to be considering what exactly is going on, and how they’re gonna get back to real life. That decided, Sam commences some deep thoughts about their situation.
He’s never heard of anything like this, just waking up in some fantasy dream world. He wonders if they somehow managed to die in their sleep, a gas leak or something, and this actually is heaven. That might not be so bad, considering: a peaceful death has always been the least likely possibility, and if there’s really a God around, he might get some answers about their lives. On the other hand, they might’ve been attacked by something really powerful, something strong enough to whisk them out of their beds despite all their protections. He glances over at his brother.
“Whatever floats your boat, right? Seriously, think about it for a minute…”
Come to think of it, why was Dean wearing pajamas? Why was he? They didn’t even own anything to sleep in besides jeans or boxers. Plus, Sam knew he was wearing a shirt when he went to bed, not to mention a pair of socks.
“I mean, c’mon, you know they were all doin’ it, even what’shername, Smurfette, she was the only girl around! It’s human nature, man… or Smurf nature or something…”
So, if they weren’t dead, then something had not only kidnapped them, but gave them sleepwear, sleepwear that - Sam did a quick inventory - Dean’s had Zeppelin angels on them. Sam’s, well… now that he looked, he had on Green Eggs and Ham pajamas. Sam considered that for a minute, then threw up his mental hands and gave up on it.
Dean’s right, as much as he hates to admit it - there’s a heavy, skunky scent in the air. Someone’s getting high someplace close. Sam knows Dean smokes weed sometimes - just like he sometimes smokes cigarettes and sometimes gets ridiculous on a couple forties of OE. Sam didn’t really like pot the few times he’s tried it - eating all the food in his house and watching a whole lot of reality TV was a novelty that wore a bit thin after a while. Dad might’ve killed them for doing drugs growing up, although weirdly enough it wasn’t really an issue. Dean never gets stoned when they’re hunting. Sam’s kinda doubtful of his brother’s ability to resist temptation now, though, especially considering the eager look on Dean’s face. As far as Sam’s concerned, they’re in a seriously hinky situation, and his brother better stay right in line like Dad’s good little soldier that he is. Sam squares his shoulders in anticipation.
They hear the party before they can see it. It sounds like the hippie drum circles that occasionally happened on the campus lawns when no one had anything better to do; laughter and the pounding of whatever homemade percussion stoners were able to whip up. Sam guesses anywhere from five to fifteen unknowns based on the noise.
The latest things to ping the wrongness meter in Sam’s head are the first thing he spots: domes. Hippies love domes - he lived in California, he knows this. But no hippie he knows goes to this much trouble for a simple drum circle: the party is dotted with open-walled domed tents covered in colorful silk, fluttering gaily in the breeze. There’s a bonfire in the center with flames taller than most people - taller than Sam, come to think of it.
A ball whizzes past Dean’s head right towards Sam; Sam catches it out of sheer instinct. Then the naked guys jog up, bait and tackle bobbling between their legs yelling, “Hey man, toss it back!”
Sam lobs it high in the air with a look to his brother that says see, I can play along too. One of the naked guys jumps straight up - and up, and up, and Sam boggles until he sees little wings on the guy’s feet. Then he catches a clue.
Oh.
He grabs his brother’s shoulder in a vise grip, squeezes really hard and pretty much spits all over Dean’s ear when he whispers, “Dean I think that’s a god. What the hell is going on?”
Dean raises two offended eyebrows at him, smacks Sam’s hands off him. “Do I look like I know anything, dude? You really think I’m hiding something here?” It makes Sam want to throttle him.
The game moves off without coming any closer, thank… god, he guesses. Sam’s no stranger to male nudity, living out of hotel rooms like he does. Usually it involves family members, as fucked up as that sounds. Now that they’re closer to the party, he’s got some confirmation of his initial assessment of the situation. There’s some honest to god... gods out there.
It kinda makes him think of that painting where dogs are playing poker - how it looks natural but somehow really off. Gods come in all shapes and sizes, Sam knows that, and some major players are grouped around the campfire. Ganesha’s playing guitar, elephant head and all, and he’s singing Jimmy Hendrix and sounding pretty good to boot. There’s yet another naked guy playing accompaniment on what looks like a lyre. An immensely fat man in saffron robes with earlobes stretched to his collar bone sits in the lotus position, nodding contentedly at the sky. A bearded, long haired hippie-looking guy is puffing away at a questionable cigar, dressed only in a loincloth.
Dean’s just staring at them, thinking (not god, definitely not god) only knows what. Sam can’t read the expression on his face - lips slightly parted, eyes wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think geek in a comic book store. Dean takes a few steps forward like he can’t quite help himself.
The hippie turns his head their way, raises a hand and coughs in greeting. “It’s about time you guys got here! Want a hit?”
Dean, of course, plops right down with a grin, saying “Hell yeah! Wake-n-bake’s better than coffee.” He sucks on the blunt, croaks hoarse thanks. Dean coughs until he’s beet red, smoke leaking from his ears. “Jesus.”
The hippie tips an invisible hat and says “Thanks, dude, Buddha’s got the indoor hydro.” He drawls it out lovingly: indoo’ hyyydro. Dean raises his eyebrows, blows the rest of the smoke out the corner of his mouth. He follows the hippie’s eyes to the guy in the lotus position, lets out a sharp belly laugh in surprise.
“Buddha, huh? So you must be…?”
The hippie’s grin grows wider, “Oh, you had it right the first time.” Dean just chuckles to himself, apparently slow on the uptake. He takes another hit and passes it to his left. Or rather, he tries to.
Sam’s staring down at his brother, astonished at the fact that Dean isn’t concerned with keeping any sort of watch for danger. He can feel a tic starting in his right eye. Dean knocks his knuckles against Sam’s, trying to get him to take the blunt. Sam clenches his fists at his brother’s red-eyed grin. He opens his mouth to speak -
Ganesha smacks Sam with his trunk, knocking him ass over teakettle. The trunk’s heavy like being slapped by a real elephant, painful enough that Sam has a long moment to appreciate just how very pink the sky is. The god solicitously twines his trunk around Sam’s arm, helps him to a sitting position with two of his four arms. The pressure’s released after a moment as He dusts Sam off and then pulls away to reach into the clouds at his feet, producing a clay jug. He offers this to Sam.
Gansha’s got an utterly unnatural (and Sam’s brain can’t resist adding so what about this IS natural, dumbass?) look on his face. Sam stares, horrified and fascinated, before he realizes that the elephant is fucking smiling at him. Sam makes a conscious effort to start thinking again, and his eyes travel down the god’s trunk to the proffered jug. It seems like such a friendly gesture, familiar from plastic two liters full of wine passed around the few times he’d been furtively drunk in high school. He’d made instant friends in those dusty towns when there was booze to share.
He looks up at Dean with the patented pleading little brother look on his face, but Dean just quirks an eyebrow at him, speaks low and comforting. “Look. I don’t see anything we can do about this right now, so we might as well chill here with G-funk and the gang. Or does someone have to get righteous on your ass, Sammy?” He holds the blunt out again.
Sam looks at his options, gingerly takes the jug. He pulls out the stopper and sniffs it, smells flowers and roasting meat. The naked guy with the lyre glances at him, and speaks for the first time. “It’s ambrosia.” When Sam stares at him in disbelief, he smiles and says, “We have wine as well. Left over from the Bacchanalia.”
Sam crooks a doubtful smile at the naked guy, who’s probably Apollo or something. He considers his options here, but doesn’t come up with too many of them. “Is it gonna make me immortal?”
Apollo winks. “Do you want to be?”
Sam takes a cautious sip of the ambrosia. Flavors bloom across his tongue: coriander and sweet liqueur, something indefinably light and grassy. It’s delicious. He savors it for a long moment, wipes his mouth and looks up to find everyone beaming at him. Dean nudges him again, and Sam takes the smoke, finally. The look on his brother’s face couldn’t say ‘this is awesome’ any plainer unless he was shouting it out loud. Buddha finally cracks an eye open at them, but it’s just to ask if they’d rather have a spotlight that beams out of their crotch twenty-four hours a day, or nipples that rove all over your body. (Dean, of course, says nipples for foreplay, and counters with asking who’d win: Batman or the Incredible Hulk.)
Sam sighs to himself. He thinks about asking if they’re dead, decides he probably doesn’t want to know. He’s stuck here one way or another for the time being. He hopes there’s some food around. This is totally Dean’s dream, anyway, even if it is a total sausage fest.
Come to think of it, he should probably have a talk with his brother when - or if - they ever wake up. Because really, for such a macho guy, there’s an awful lot of pink.
Author: essenceofmeanin
Rating: R for adult substances and language
Genre/Pairing/Wordcount: Gen/humor, none, and about 2,500.
Summary: Sam and Dean wake up in a mysterious pink heaven, and meet some interesting folk. This is sheer crack of the oh, DEAN! variety.
Disclaimer: They aren’t mine.
Spoilers: You’ve met Sam and Dean, right? Other than that, none at all.
A/N: thanks again for the beta, hansbekhart and girlguidejones! you guys rock.
Sam wakes to an endless expanse of pink. Blushing pink sky rolling off into middle distance. No recognizable landmarks, just fluffy. Pink. Clouds. He’s laying on them like a giant mattress. He summons up the only appropriate reaction.
“What the fuck?”
Something snuffles next to him. “Dude, shut up, they’ll hear you.”
Sam’s on his feet in an instant, reaching for his gun, but not only is he barefoot and unarmed, there’s also no one else there.
He turns slowly around. There’s something small and slightly less pink sticking out of the clouds near his feet. It’s moving slightly. Sam watches for a moment, horrified and curious, until it snuffles loudly, and a hand comes up out of nowhere to rub at what Sam now realizes is a nose. Slowly, tufts of hair start to appear, then his brother’s chest, wafting gently upwards as if borne on the wings of angels. Eventually, Dean’s sprawled boneless atop the clouds, arms and legs akimbo and showing no signs of waking.
“Dean!”
“Seriously, man! We only paid twenty-seven cents for these tickets and the cat’s up next!”
Sam kicks him.
Dean snorts awake, picking threads of cloud from his mouth. He looks blearily around.
“Dude. What did you do?”
Sam spreads his hands wide, stomps his foot. He knows he’s acting twelve again, but goddamn it he can’t help it. Dean rolls onto his back, props himself up on his elbows.
“Where the hell are we?”
Sam sighs the biggest sigh he can possibly manage. It’s pretty big - he pulls his shoulders back for it, draws himself up to his full six feet-and-lots-of-change, heaves in a breath and lets it go so forcefully that Dean grimaces at him, says “Why’re you looking at me like this is my fault?”
“It probably is, Dean! The last thing I remember is going to sleep after I broke up that fight ... that you started. With our luck, that biker chick was probably the head of a fairy clan and you pissed it off! Or maybe the bartender was another trickster and must’ve shoved us into your - your dream, or something!” Sam flops back onto the soft clouds, sending up a puff of fruity smelling dust, and glares at his brother. Dean’s eyes are incredulously wide. He stops to pick a sleep booger out of the corner of one of them before replying.
“No way, man. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I know it sucked when you kicked me. I’m awake; this has gotta be your dream - only you would stick us in some seven year old girl’s idea of heaven. My heaven would have coffee.”
Sam rolls his eyes expansively, scrubs a hand through his hair. “Okay… I know I’m gonna regret this, but there’s an easy way to check.” He sucks in a breath. “Pinch me.”
Dean lights up like it’s Christmas in July at his baby brother offering himself up for voluntary harm. He reaches promptly over with both hands and gives Sam the biggest, fattest Indian burn since they were kids. Sam yelps in surprise and smacks Dean on the side of the head. Dean grabs him, and they go down fighting dirty.
“I said pinch, jackass --”
“Shoulda seen your face -”
They roll across the clouds. Sam whacks Dean’s hands away from his face when Dean goes for his ears and gets an elbow in the solar plexus for it. He curls into himself, gasping. Dean seizes the opportunity and pins Sam’s arms down, grinning victoriously. Sam stares up at his brother, finally noticing that the clouds are not only pink but glittery too, and now so are they. He quickly decides to violate the International Agreement of Men Fighting Fair. He goes for the nut shot, and Dean goes down.
Dean rolls a few feet away, hissing between his teeth. “You sonofabitch,” he wheezes after a moment. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
Sam can’t help the grin, and doesn’t try to stop it. Dean’s hair is sparkly, his eyelashes shimmering in the soft light. Somehow, the presence of glitter just pushed this whole experience from really weird to completely FUBAR. He sighs and plops himself down next to Dean, attempts to brush the glitter out of his hair. Dean growls at him.
“You look like you’ve been screwing a stripper, man.”
“You look like my Saturday morning,” Dean smirks back. Sam stares at him for a minute.
“That doesn’t even really make sense.”
Dean pulls himself painfully into a sitting position, knocks his shoulder against Sam’s. “Sure it does, dude. Just think about it a minute.”
Sam sighs, looks out across the bizarro landscape. “Do you think we’re in heaven?”
“If we are, there better be some angel strippers to justify this fucking glitter.”
Sam looks over at Dean, takes in his brother’s ignorant grinning self. “Angels aren’t gendered. Traditionally they’re - that’s not even the point! How can you not take this seriously? We might be dead for all you know!”
Dean opens his mouth and then snaps it shut with an audible click. His head swivels, sniffing the air. He pops to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, grabs Sam by the elbow and muscles him up. “Dude, ya smell that?”
Sam jerks himself out of Dean’s grip, plants his feet. “No.”
“Whatever, killjoy. It’s ganj, and it’s this way!”
Dean tromps off across the clouds, hands stuck in his pajama pockets and planting his feet like he’s still wearing steel toes. He doesn’t look back to make sure Sam’s keeping up, but yells behind him, “Y’know, jumping back to angels for a minute, I’d totally hit that shit. You don’t think we did all that good to die and not get laid, right? I mean, doesn’t have to be a stripper angel, anything’s fine long as it’s somethin’ somethin’. I don’t always bat for the same team, that’s half the population right there, right?”
Sam stops listening. If Dean’s just gonna babble with his downstairs brain, then Sam needs to be considering what exactly is going on, and how they’re gonna get back to real life. That decided, Sam commences some deep thoughts about their situation.
He’s never heard of anything like this, just waking up in some fantasy dream world. He wonders if they somehow managed to die in their sleep, a gas leak or something, and this actually is heaven. That might not be so bad, considering: a peaceful death has always been the least likely possibility, and if there’s really a God around, he might get some answers about their lives. On the other hand, they might’ve been attacked by something really powerful, something strong enough to whisk them out of their beds despite all their protections. He glances over at his brother.
“Whatever floats your boat, right? Seriously, think about it for a minute…”
Come to think of it, why was Dean wearing pajamas? Why was he? They didn’t even own anything to sleep in besides jeans or boxers. Plus, Sam knew he was wearing a shirt when he went to bed, not to mention a pair of socks.
“I mean, c’mon, you know they were all doin’ it, even what’shername, Smurfette, she was the only girl around! It’s human nature, man… or Smurf nature or something…”
So, if they weren’t dead, then something had not only kidnapped them, but gave them sleepwear, sleepwear that - Sam did a quick inventory - Dean’s had Zeppelin angels on them. Sam’s, well… now that he looked, he had on Green Eggs and Ham pajamas. Sam considered that for a minute, then threw up his mental hands and gave up on it.
Dean’s right, as much as he hates to admit it - there’s a heavy, skunky scent in the air. Someone’s getting high someplace close. Sam knows Dean smokes weed sometimes - just like he sometimes smokes cigarettes and sometimes gets ridiculous on a couple forties of OE. Sam didn’t really like pot the few times he’s tried it - eating all the food in his house and watching a whole lot of reality TV was a novelty that wore a bit thin after a while. Dad might’ve killed them for doing drugs growing up, although weirdly enough it wasn’t really an issue. Dean never gets stoned when they’re hunting. Sam’s kinda doubtful of his brother’s ability to resist temptation now, though, especially considering the eager look on Dean’s face. As far as Sam’s concerned, they’re in a seriously hinky situation, and his brother better stay right in line like Dad’s good little soldier that he is. Sam squares his shoulders in anticipation.
They hear the party before they can see it. It sounds like the hippie drum circles that occasionally happened on the campus lawns when no one had anything better to do; laughter and the pounding of whatever homemade percussion stoners were able to whip up. Sam guesses anywhere from five to fifteen unknowns based on the noise.
The latest things to ping the wrongness meter in Sam’s head are the first thing he spots: domes. Hippies love domes - he lived in California, he knows this. But no hippie he knows goes to this much trouble for a simple drum circle: the party is dotted with open-walled domed tents covered in colorful silk, fluttering gaily in the breeze. There’s a bonfire in the center with flames taller than most people - taller than Sam, come to think of it.
A ball whizzes past Dean’s head right towards Sam; Sam catches it out of sheer instinct. Then the naked guys jog up, bait and tackle bobbling between their legs yelling, “Hey man, toss it back!”
Sam lobs it high in the air with a look to his brother that says see, I can play along too. One of the naked guys jumps straight up - and up, and up, and Sam boggles until he sees little wings on the guy’s feet. Then he catches a clue.
Oh.
He grabs his brother’s shoulder in a vise grip, squeezes really hard and pretty much spits all over Dean’s ear when he whispers, “Dean I think that’s a god. What the hell is going on?”
Dean raises two offended eyebrows at him, smacks Sam’s hands off him. “Do I look like I know anything, dude? You really think I’m hiding something here?” It makes Sam want to throttle him.
The game moves off without coming any closer, thank… god, he guesses. Sam’s no stranger to male nudity, living out of hotel rooms like he does. Usually it involves family members, as fucked up as that sounds. Now that they’re closer to the party, he’s got some confirmation of his initial assessment of the situation. There’s some honest to god... gods out there.
It kinda makes him think of that painting where dogs are playing poker - how it looks natural but somehow really off. Gods come in all shapes and sizes, Sam knows that, and some major players are grouped around the campfire. Ganesha’s playing guitar, elephant head and all, and he’s singing Jimmy Hendrix and sounding pretty good to boot. There’s yet another naked guy playing accompaniment on what looks like a lyre. An immensely fat man in saffron robes with earlobes stretched to his collar bone sits in the lotus position, nodding contentedly at the sky. A bearded, long haired hippie-looking guy is puffing away at a questionable cigar, dressed only in a loincloth.
Dean’s just staring at them, thinking (not god, definitely not god) only knows what. Sam can’t read the expression on his face - lips slightly parted, eyes wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think geek in a comic book store. Dean takes a few steps forward like he can’t quite help himself.
The hippie turns his head their way, raises a hand and coughs in greeting. “It’s about time you guys got here! Want a hit?”
Dean, of course, plops right down with a grin, saying “Hell yeah! Wake-n-bake’s better than coffee.” He sucks on the blunt, croaks hoarse thanks. Dean coughs until he’s beet red, smoke leaking from his ears. “Jesus.”
The hippie tips an invisible hat and says “Thanks, dude, Buddha’s got the indoor hydro.” He drawls it out lovingly: indoo’ hyyydro. Dean raises his eyebrows, blows the rest of the smoke out the corner of his mouth. He follows the hippie’s eyes to the guy in the lotus position, lets out a sharp belly laugh in surprise.
“Buddha, huh? So you must be…?”
The hippie’s grin grows wider, “Oh, you had it right the first time.” Dean just chuckles to himself, apparently slow on the uptake. He takes another hit and passes it to his left. Or rather, he tries to.
Sam’s staring down at his brother, astonished at the fact that Dean isn’t concerned with keeping any sort of watch for danger. He can feel a tic starting in his right eye. Dean knocks his knuckles against Sam’s, trying to get him to take the blunt. Sam clenches his fists at his brother’s red-eyed grin. He opens his mouth to speak -
Ganesha smacks Sam with his trunk, knocking him ass over teakettle. The trunk’s heavy like being slapped by a real elephant, painful enough that Sam has a long moment to appreciate just how very pink the sky is. The god solicitously twines his trunk around Sam’s arm, helps him to a sitting position with two of his four arms. The pressure’s released after a moment as He dusts Sam off and then pulls away to reach into the clouds at his feet, producing a clay jug. He offers this to Sam.
Gansha’s got an utterly unnatural (and Sam’s brain can’t resist adding so what about this IS natural, dumbass?) look on his face. Sam stares, horrified and fascinated, before he realizes that the elephant is fucking smiling at him. Sam makes a conscious effort to start thinking again, and his eyes travel down the god’s trunk to the proffered jug. It seems like such a friendly gesture, familiar from plastic two liters full of wine passed around the few times he’d been furtively drunk in high school. He’d made instant friends in those dusty towns when there was booze to share.
He looks up at Dean with the patented pleading little brother look on his face, but Dean just quirks an eyebrow at him, speaks low and comforting. “Look. I don’t see anything we can do about this right now, so we might as well chill here with G-funk and the gang. Or does someone have to get righteous on your ass, Sammy?” He holds the blunt out again.
Sam looks at his options, gingerly takes the jug. He pulls out the stopper and sniffs it, smells flowers and roasting meat. The naked guy with the lyre glances at him, and speaks for the first time. “It’s ambrosia.” When Sam stares at him in disbelief, he smiles and says, “We have wine as well. Left over from the Bacchanalia.”
Sam crooks a doubtful smile at the naked guy, who’s probably Apollo or something. He considers his options here, but doesn’t come up with too many of them. “Is it gonna make me immortal?”
Apollo winks. “Do you want to be?”
Sam takes a cautious sip of the ambrosia. Flavors bloom across his tongue: coriander and sweet liqueur, something indefinably light and grassy. It’s delicious. He savors it for a long moment, wipes his mouth and looks up to find everyone beaming at him. Dean nudges him again, and Sam takes the smoke, finally. The look on his brother’s face couldn’t say ‘this is awesome’ any plainer unless he was shouting it out loud. Buddha finally cracks an eye open at them, but it’s just to ask if they’d rather have a spotlight that beams out of their crotch twenty-four hours a day, or nipples that rove all over your body. (Dean, of course, says nipples for foreplay, and counters with asking who’d win: Batman or the Incredible Hulk.)
Sam sighs to himself. He thinks about asking if they’re dead, decides he probably doesn’t want to know. He’s stuck here one way or another for the time being. He hopes there’s some food around. This is totally Dean’s dream, anyway, even if it is a total sausage fest.
Come to think of it, he should probably have a talk with his brother when - or if - they ever wake up. Because really, for such a macho guy, there’s an awful lot of pink.