Cas – his scrawny, dishevelled form swapped in a faded t-shirt promoting some album he'd never heard and now, at the end of the world, probably never would - sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor fiddling with a joint and didn't look up – he was at one with the universe and aware of all its cosmic flowing, after all (or whatever bullshit it was he'd told the ladies of the camp this week, which was really code for 'tripped out on the drug of the moment and basking in post-coital afterglow') and Ruby's presence sent ripples through the inter-planer... wibbly-stuff (not in the way it used to, granted, not now he could sit next to her for hours without his skin prickling, but still. No demon was going to sneak up on him!). Besides, what he was rolling demanded total concentration. It seemed infeasibly small, while his fingers where much larger than he remembered, and so the whole process was a delicate operation.
“You missed the orgy” he replied (casually, but that was his default tone these days – a lazy, nonchalant slur – and besides, it wasn't as if orgies were anything other than an everyday occurrence in Croat-land), running his tongue along the edge of the paper and spinning the small white cylinder between his fingers, scrutinizing his handiwork before – satisfied – handing it to her.