real talk, which doctor would you smoke a blunt with? what would even happen if a time lord smoked weed
i remember something from "Alien Bodies" (EDA) about how timelords can't really get drunk (and therefore probably can't get high), but fuck that. let's play in the space for a bit. *drugs, smoking, alcohol cw*
first doctor: he pretends to discourage drugs and alcohol around humans but then goes to other planets and is like "this is the snorgal ham plant and it does unthinkable things to your mind and body" before swallowing it whole
second doctor: he's a chatty drunk and a quiet smoker, he's so chill that you think he might be dead until he randomly says something like "jamie? how many hats do you think i can wear at once???" in a distressed voice
third doctor: he's done literally every single drug you can imagine for scientific purposes. this man has been crossfaded upside down and sideways. jon pertwee was out here lookin like this in the 70's and he had a villa in Ibiza. bitch smokes weed.
fourth doctor: he doesn't even need drugs, my mans is already sky high from the adrenaline rush of one eternal manic episode. he's never been sober in his life.
fifth doctor: look, i love him, but he'd be a total dad about it. he'd say some dad catchphrase like "no, no, you know me - i stay on my toes, i stay sharp" and then swing a cricket bat and break a priceless vase
sixth doctor: you pass him the blunt and he laughs. "what, that's all? no triglyceride tetrachrolonitrine 5? no Lady's Nightgown? no double helix paper?" he pulls this monstrosity out of his pocket.
seventh doctor: he's so fucking neurotic that you can't even get him to sit down. he tries but then he sees something shiny and goes to investigate. it was a cyberman. he commits some war crimes.
eighth doctor: legally not allowed to have any kind of stimulant or depressant, per Liv's orders. keep him away from the coffee and sweets. he hasn't slept in four months, thirteen days, nine hours, forty-five minutes, seven… eight… nine seconds. yes, he's counting.
shalka doctor: smokes HELLA kush, on god, but you already knew that.
war doctor AND ninth doctor: continues to smoke lethal amounts of weed and drink fruity cocktails to cope with specters of the past. jesus christ, that's his fifth strawberry daiquiri in twelve minutes. someone hide the white rum.
tenth doctor: he has girls' nights with donna where they hotbox venusian saunas and listen to katy perry. don't let the existential dread set in. don't let it set in. let's do some karaoke.
twelfth doctor: you know, i've seen all of his episodes many times, and for the entire duration of his run, i never saw him stop vaping weed. must be the respiratory bypass. he's always spewing thick clouds and flipping everyone off with both hands. it's an interesting cinematic choice.
thirteenth doctor: her tardis literally looks like the inside of a disco ball and you think she's sober??? well, you'd be right, because she doesn't know how to find a dealer and she's too scared to ask. someone help her.
please please tell me which one you'd pick, i genuinely want to know. i think that every single Doctor is a disaster and smoking with any of them would result in my immediate demise, but if i had to choose, it would probably be twelve. let's go out blazing.
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Dean’s at this speed-dating event only because he lost a bet to Sam. But just because the bet stipulated that he come to this event on this Friday night, did not mean he had to actively participate. He signed up. He’s here. Now, he’s going to sit in the corner of this bar and drink until this nightmare is over.
He signed his name-tag Eddie Van Halen. That has been the giveaway of his whole attitude. People would walk up, see that name, and turn around. They know he’s not serious. It’s worked well all night.
Until suddenly, it doesn’t. A man slides onto the barstool beside Dean’s and orders a beer. He’s an awkward-looking guy with messy dark hair and an ill-fitting suit under an even iller-fitting overcoat. His features are nice enough: strong jawline, eyes Sinatra blue. He grips the beer bottle with long fingers. Under that terrible overcoat, his shoulders seem pretty wide.
He looks at Dean and offers a tiny smile. “Long night?” He squints at Dean’s name-tag. “Eddie?”
Dean blinks a few times. “Eddie Van Halen,” he says.
The guy - his name-tag simply reads Cas - tilts his head ever so slightly. “I apologize. Do you go by the full name?”
“Dude. Eddie Van Halen. Van Halen?” Dean asks with increasing incredulity. This guy has to be messing with him. But when Cas just frowns, Dean has a sinking feeling that no, he might just not know. “You don’t know Van Halen? The band.”
“Oh? Are you famous?”
Dean covers his face with both hands and takes a breath. When he lowers them, Cas is looking at him with bright, curious eyes, like he’s genuinely interested. He really has no idea.
But, weirdly, Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he laughs for the first time in a long time. “Think I found the only guy in the whole world who doesn’t know...” He shook his head. “Just call me Dean.”
Cas’s smile spreads a bit wider. “Hello, Dean.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Cas.”
They spend the next hour talking. Cas has a corporate job that he hates. When he starts to explain it, Dean can’t help but space out, even as he tries hard to pay attention. Cas just laughs a little, a sound that reverberates in Dean’s chest - it might just live there forever.
When Cas asks Dean about his band, Dean has to come clean. “I’m not in Van Halen.” He motions to the name-tag. “This isn’t my real name.”
“Oh,” Cas says. He presses his lips hard together and squints - his thinking face, Dean is learning. “Why would you lie?” Before Dean can answer though, his face shifts, and his whole manner deflates. “Oh, Dean. You wanted to be left alone. I’m sorry.” He starts to stand up.
Dean, panicking, reaches out and touches his arm. “No, you’re wrong,” he says. When Cas looks back at him, Dean laments, “Well, okay - not wrong. But. I don’t mind right now.” He clears his throat. He’s not good at this stuff. “With you.”
He must have said something right, though, because Cas’s face lights up like Christmas morning. “Really?”
“Yeah, man. Just... sit back down, okay? Let’s have another round.”
Cas sits down, closer than before. Their shoulders brush. Cas places his hand on Dean’s knee as he tells a particular impassioned story about a bees. It’s not usually Dean’s kind of thing but he’s enamored anyway. He thinks maybe he could listen to Cas talk all day in that deep gravelly voice, with that passion in his eyes.
They stay at the bar even after the event ends, until it is closing-time and the waitstaff is lifting chairs onto tables, cleaning up for the night.
Dean can’t quite believe how time flew. Paying his tab, walking outside, feels a bit like coming up for air after swimming underwater. With Cas beside him, he kind of wants to drown.
They stand in the parking lot, facing each other. Cas has his hands in his pockets. Dean wants to grab him by the lapels and kiss him. But he also wants... more than that.
“You have a pen?” Dean asks.
Cas blinks at him for a second and then digs a pencil from one of his pockets.
Dean peels off his own name-tag and takes the pencil. He scribbles his number across the bottom, then presses the name-tag onto Cas’s chest. He keeps his hand there a moment longer than needed. Then two.
Cas reaches up and places his hand over Dean’s, right there over his heart.
“Will you call me?” Dean asks.
“Of course, I will, Eddie.” Cas offers another secret smile, and Dean likes having this inside joke with Cas now. He wants so many more.
“Good,” Dean says and steps closer. Cas’s secret smile stays and Dean can see it much better now. His favorite though, is when he feels it against his lips.
When Sam asks him later how it went, Dean thinks of Cas and of that kiss, and tells him, “I feel like a rock star.”
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