We were coming back from Duval St in Key West, back in college, in my Satellite wagon. Three across the front bench; four or five across the rear seat; another four or five in the cargo area. I saw in the mirror that Dave, center of the back seat, had passed out cold. I motioned for the guy next to me - Pat - to lean in. Told him I'm gonna hand-count one, two, three, and slam on the brakes. When I do, scream bloody murder. Pass it around the car. He did, we got to a spot that was empty (it was about 3am), Pat turned around with his camera (this was mid-90s, no phone cameras yet), and waited. I counted, slammed on the brakes, and everyone screamed.
To this day, Pat has an end table with four photos epoxied into it.
One - Dave, peacefully asleep, head on Amy's shoulder.
Two - Dave, same position, eyes wide open like saucers
Three - Dave, sitting bolt upright, eyes even wider, mouth open in a scream
Four - Dave, blurry and out of focus, as his face smacks into Pat's camera.
Amy - now Pat's wife - HATES that table...but she still giggles when she looks at it.