To hear Dean tell it, you'd think he had the worst taste in music. Truth is, Sam doesn't really have taste in music. Sam also doesn't really know which is considered worse. He figures the latter, since Dean mocks him about emo and chick bands (which, how the hell does he know about them anyway?) in spite of the fact that he's never seen evidence to support Sam having any interest in music.

He doesn't dislike Dean's taste in music, not really. Mostly it's just there like anything is there, filling the silence. Growing up he was really only exposed to what Dad loved and what Dean inflicted on him. He never had enough time in one place to glean preferences from his peers and never any funds to take chances with second hand tapes at those "underground" record shops that even every small town seemed to have. Dean had a passion for music so had managed to develop his tastes despite all that.

Sam knows this but he doesn't understand it, which is why he cuts his own voice short out of confusion when Dean reaches over and non-too-lightly jabs a button on the dash, filling the car with the screeches of a rewinding tape.

He does all this without so much as flicking his eyes from the road, but after some time Dean clicks another button--stop--and regards Sam with an irritated stare.

"You done?"

"Uh, actually, I didn't get the chance to start. If you remember correctly, you told me to hold off on whatever 'group therapy' I had in mind until after this song--"

"Yeah, Sammy--after!"

"Dude, it's like a ten minute song! And it was the end of a ten minute song!"

"No it was during the end of a seven minute song! An ending, I'll have you know, that is the sole purpose of sitting through the first six minutes."

"That doesn't even make sense, Dean." An irritated huff. "Why wouldn't you just listen to the last part of the song then?"

Dean shoots his don't be stupid glare at this, adding his do I really need to explain this? brow-furrow.

"Because, Sammy, it doesn't work that way. The ending is the climax of all that build-up. What you're asking is for an orgasm without foreplay--"

Sam snorts, "Something you'd know about."

"You see, Sammy, this is why you don't get laid; you don't understand the subtleties and complexities of--"

"Whatever, man."

"Yeah, whatever. Maybe if you were a music-o-phile like me--"

"A music-o-phile?"

"Yeah, Sammy, it's like a necrophile but not disgusting. Maybe if you were a music-o-phile--"

Eyeroll.

"--then you'd finally understand women enough to get some. You know, as opposed to talking to them about their feelings and holding them while they cry and shit."

"Whatever, dude."

"Now, can you be quiet for the next seven minutes? I was really looking forward to jamming to that Spanish bit at the end…least I think it's Spanish."

"Yeah, Dean. I mean," The bickering leaves Sam's body, "I don't even remember what I had to say in the first place."

"There's a blessing." Dean tries to keep his eyes serious at that, but he hasn't quite stifled the upturn of his mouth.

Sam relaxes his shoulders and turns to look out the window. Beside him, Dean is fiddling with the tape-deck, only settling once he's found the start of the song. Or close enough.

"I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are, and you make it hard--"

Okay, so maybe Sam doesn't get it. But he likes that Dean does. Sometimes. When the song isn't seven minutes long.